


Time for Them to Find Out

by hideinthecitynight (avoidbrightstreetlights)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alpha Talia Hale, Arson, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Body Cohabitation, Cursed Stiles Stilinski, Demon, Deputy Derek Hale, Familiars, Guilt, Hunters, Jealousy, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mental Institutions, Multi, Murder, Panic Attacks, Secrets, Sheriff Stilinski Doesn't Know About Stiles, Wanted Stiles Stilinski, abusive childhood, supernatural haven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 61,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9300215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avoidbrightstreetlights/pseuds/hideinthecitynight
Summary: Stiles, 23, orphan, Spark, on the run from magical authorities, has a familiar bond with a werewolf, not alone in his head - receives instructions to find one Sheriff John Stilinski and tell him 'the truth' otherwise he is cursed to speak one word per 23 seconds.Jackson laughs. Then freaks out. Then meets Peter. Then freaks out even more.





	1. Do As I Say

Stiles woke up in a bad mood. He lifted his head from the bed, scrunched his nose in distaste and confusion, and breathed in deeply. Something was wrong with this day. He could feel it in his gut. It had a bad vibe.

  
And still, he got up, took a shower, bypassed breakfast altogether and plopped in front of the TV. He found his cell on the couch, scrolled through 23 new messages – thank you in this one, thank you in that one, a possible new job here and a request for assistance there. His mundane job, his routine he was used to and yet, there was something about this day that made him tense in discomfort. Something was going to change today.

  
He felt a tug at his gut, informing him that his familiar felt his tenseness and was worried. And yet, Stiles could not muster enough strength to send a comforting feeling back through the bond to sooth him.

  
He felt weird. One moment, he was sitting spaced out on the couch, everything quiet around him and another - he felt the air thrumming around him, floor shaking and the world vibrating. He quickly got to his feet and ran to the window. Everyone seemed so fine on the street, milling around unaffected. So it was only his apartment then.

  
Something was happening and he felt like it was getting hard to breathe. Every muscle in his body was strained, every cell wired. The bond in his chest was urgently tugging, demanding to know what was wrong.

  
He staggered away from the window and the lack of air bent him over. He was now taking short ragged intakes of breath. The room was closing in on him. It was getting darker around the edges. He could not see. Nor breathe. He couldn`t…

  
The doorbell rang and he felt a loud pop in his ears. Suddenly his whole postured straightened and air could once again freely reside in his lungs. He blinked a couple times, clearing his vision. Stiles had no idea what had just happened, but it was nothing good, he was sure.

  
The doorbell rang one more time and his head snapped to the door. He felt a compelling urge to open it.

  
On the other side of the threshold stood a man in his early twenties. He was bald and tall and seemed to be made of muscles. Stiles looked him up and down and his focus zeroed on the small letter the guy was holding in his hand. It felt like it didn`t belong to him and Stiles` hands itched.

  
They stared at each other for a minute when the guy asked, “Are you Stiles?”

  
Stiles could only blink at the human in front of him. Very few people knew where he lived, so few that one didn`t even need all the fingers on one hand to count.

  
“Who`s asking?” he replied cautiously. He mentally checked the wards and calmed down a little when he made sure that they were not trampled with.

  
“I have a message for you”, he said and his face was so emotionless it crept Stiles out. “Here,” he outstretched his hand, “take it.”

  
“What is it?”Stiles hesitated. With a morning he had, this piece of paper could not be good news.

  
“I don`t know,” the stranger shrugged indifferently. “But if you’re Stiles, then it`s for you.”

  
And yet, Stiles hesitated.

  
“Just take it so that I could finally leave. My family had stored this envelope for 23 years and now I finally get to pass it to the one who should receive it. If you`re Stiles, then it`s you. Just take it. Please.” He shoved his hand closer to Stiles. “You have to take it. There is no other way”.

  
There was some kind of desperation on the man’s face. He tentatively outstretched his hand and took the envelope. He felt a tiny shock in his fingers and heard a deep relieved sigh. He turned it in his hands, noticing that there was nothing written on it. Then how was that man sure that it was for him?

  
He lifted his head but the question died in his mouth. The man was gone.

  
He closed the door and walked to the couch. If he had to open a mysterious letter he`d better do it in comfort.

  
He opened it carefully and pulled a few small white cards. The first one read:  
                                                                                                            _Знайди його і матимеш все –_  
_Шериф Джон Стілінскі_  
_(Find him and you`ll have everything –_  
_Sheriff John Stilinski.)_

  
Stiles stared at the message in shock. He was just handed an envelope with no name or address which contained some card with a message in Ukrainian. Then he got confused, because why the hell this language? And finally, he was overcome with anger. Who the fuck did that sender think he was? He already had everything he needed.

  
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He tossed the top card away and his eyes bulged at the next one while releasing a stunned gasp.  
                                                                                                                      _Не матюкайся_  
_(Don`t curse)_

  
“What the fuck?” Stiles looked bewildered at the card in his hand and quickly tossed it aside. The next card greeted him with,  
                                                                                                            _Не матюкайся я тобі кажу!_  
_(I said don`t curse!)_

  
“What the fuck do you mean I shouldn`t curse?” he looked at the card deeply mortified and scared. Well, he was freaked out – the cards were talking to him, but he was too shocked and unfocused to figure out a reasonable explanation. He threw away the top card as if it was possessed and on the next one he read,  
                                                                                                                _Ти догрався, хлопче!_  
_(That`s it, young man!)_

  
Once he read the words his body shudder and he felt light-headed. His mouth felt dry, fingers were tingling, hair on his neck stood up and his heart was beating like mad. The magic inside him was swirling like a tornado and a bond was going haywire.

  
“No,” he choked out, just barely.

  
Did he just get _cursed_ by a freaking paper card?

  
Stiles closed his eyes and focused. He pictured the curse as a barrier inside and his magic as a hammer. But on impact, the wall did not even crack.

  
He jumped to his feet and tripped over nothing, barely grabbing onto the table and falling back on the couch. He had wards at least for everything and yet his magic could not fight some curse that was not even cast directly.

  
“What” _did you do?_ He meant to finish but realised that he could not, as the words got stuck in his throat. He tried to finish the phrase but all his efforts were fruitless. In some indefinite time, his voice seemed to come back to him, but only for one word.

  
“What,” _is happening?_ But again, only one word was said out loud. Was he cursed to be monosyllabic? If yes, then it was the worst curse he`d ever dealt with, considering he was once cursed to sing every word he spoke. How very Disney of him.

He rolled up his right sleeve and looked at the tattoo on his arm. It did not glow, nor did it stir.  _No help from you then._

  
He took a deep breath, tossed the top card aside and felt that the card in his hand was the last one and it said,  
                                                            _Не переймайся. Прокляття розсіється як тільки ти знайдеш Джона Стілінскі та відкриєш йому правду._  
_Все буде добре._  
_Успіхів тобі!_  
_(Don`t worry. The curse will dissipate once you find John Stilinski and tell him the truth._  
_You`ll be fine._  
_Good luck!)_

  
He dropped the last card from his numb fingers on the floor and stared at the wall in complete bewilderment.

  
“Fucking,” _great!_ As he failed to say more than one word he whined loudly and eased in the couch. The bad vibe this day had indeed.

  
At least the good news was that his speech was not reduced to monosyllabic.

  
That`s how Jackson found him 40 minutes later when he rushed into the apartment all wolfed out.

  
“Stiles!” He rushed to the young man, who was slouched on the couch with his gaze vacantly pointed at the opposite wall.

  
“Stiles!” Jackson desperately shook his shoulders. “What`s wrong? Stiles?”

  
Stiles slowly blinked and looked at Jackson`s face full of worry.

  
“Jackson,” he said. _What are you doing here?_ He meant to ask, but the words got stuck in his throat.

  
“Oh thank fuck!” Jackson fell on the floor, relaxing more and more. “You`re fine.” He took a deep breath and watched as his claws retracted.

  
Stiles decided to be more careful with his words. He could not allow himself to speak in only pronouns and adverbs.

  
“No,” he looked brokenly at Jackson. He was not fine and he tried to tell Jackson it with his eyes. His companions head whipped to look at him and he quickly moved closer and began frantically looking for any wounds or any other indication of this non-fineness.

  
“What`s wrong with you?” That did not sound like Jackson. He was too frantic. Stiles sent a calming wave through the bond and Jackson, sure that there is no physical damage sat back and took a long calming breath. He looked at Stiles imploringly.

  
“Curse,” was all he could say. Werewolves` eyebrows flew to the roof and his lips parted. Yes, it was that unbelievable.

  
“How?” he asked, still trying to process the information. Stiles opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He tried again, and again, and again until finally, “Cards,” was all Stiles said and pointed to the left from Jackson, where they were scattered on the floor. Jackson bent slowly over them, hands hesitatingly hovering over the cards. Once he read all five of them he questioningly looked at Stiles.

  
“What the fuck?” he shook his head. Stiles looked at him with understanding. “That,” _‘s what I thought._ And yet again, he could not finish the phrase.

  
Jackson looked at him quizzically. “What did you say?”

  
But Stiles could only huff in frustration. And then again he could not utter a sound. It seemed like it also had some kind of a time barrier. He should try counting the time between his words.

  
“Curse”, he said and looked meaningfully at Jackson.

  
“You were cursed. I get that. But what does it do?” he looked confused about the whole situation.

  
But Stiles did not focus on that question. He was counting how soon he could say the next word.

  
It took 23 seconds. Plenty of time to plan his only word carefully.

  
“Words”, he said, looking meaningfully at Jackson, willing him to understand, to notice how unlike Stiles it was to communicate in single words.

  
Jackson scrunched his nose in confusion. Stiles rolled his eyes, thinking how a moron like Jackson could be his familiar.

  
And then, he seemed to finally get it.

  
“Oh my God!” he exclaimed, smiled suddenly blooming on his face. “Someone finally put a restraint on your mouth. This is the best day ever!”

  
For which Stiles kicked him in the shin. Jackson fell on his back and Stiles stood up with a huff and marched into the kitchen. He had a serious problem here and instead of a solution he got laughed at.

  
Stiles took a glass and poured some water. His hands were shaking, he noticed. Taking a deep gulp, he put now empty glass on the counter and leant on it with his head bowed. He felt a headache forming.

  
Beside him, he could hear quiet footsteps and disgruntled huff.

  
“I`m sorry, ok?” he heard Jackson stop few steps behind him. “My reaction was wrong,” he said, but his unsteady voice gave out how hard it was to admit his mistake. They were working on manners with Jackson and it seemed that it was finally paying off.

  
Stiles turned and stared at him blankly. “Dude,” Stiles made a helpless gesture.

  
“What do the cards say?” he asked but then huffed in irritation. “Do you know what language that is?”

  
“Ukrainian.”

  
“Oh,” Jackson looked at him in surprise. “Good thing you know it, right. So what do the cards say?” Stiles lifted an eyebrow at him and scrunched his face in mockery hoping it would relay his thoughts – You are a moron and slow on the uptake.

  
Werewolf huffed in irritation. “Right, right. Can you write the translation for me? Or explanation? Something?” he then furrowed his brows in confusion. “Will you write it in single words too?”

  
It was Stiles turn to look baffled. Because really – could he write? He dashed to the table, found a spare piece of paper and a pen, and braced himself for a result. What came out was _I can talk every 23 seconds Jesus fucking Christ Jackson it’s a fucking disaster._

  
Stiles grinned, happy that at least he was not restricted in every form of communication and shoved the piece of paper into Jackson's face.

  
Jackson read it out loud in a monotonous voice and then greeted Stiles with a bitch face.

  
“Seriously?” he asked in disbelief. “First thing you write and half of it is explicit.”

  
Stiles could only shrug. _That`s who I am_ , it conveyed.

  
Jackson put the piece paper back on the table and said, “Now tell me what the cards say.”

  
And Stiles did, including explicit markers. He also wrote how he got those cards, what he felt and expressed his despair about this entire situation.

  
While Jackson was reading his not that small report, Stiles was googling and searching for _Sheriff John Stilinski_. What he found punched a surprised, “Shit” out of him. The man indeed was an acting Sheriff of Beacon Hills, just the place where Jackson grew up.

  
“What is it?” Jackson inquired and moved to peer over Stiles' shoulder and into his phone. “Shit,” Jackson could only echo the sentiment when he read the information on the screen. Stiles turned to look at Jackson. Was it because of him he got cursed? Maybe someone from his past wanted to lure him back? Maybe family? Or friends? But Stiles could not understand what for. Jackson was bit after he left Beacon Hills. As for Stiles, he had no connections in that town.

  
“No,” Jackson said shaking his head vehemently and interrupting any of Stiles` thinking. “We can`t go,” he cast down his eyes in shame. Stiles could only sympathise. As expected, Jackson did not want to go.

  
“Must,” Stiles said. That was his only chance at breaking the curse. And naturally, he would like to have his familiar with him.

  
Jackson shook his head vehemently. “I _can`t_ go back.” His whole body was strained with fear at the thought of going back. It wouldn`t be a problem if they just hopped into the Sheriff`s station, Stiles went to say hi, wam bam, curse is broken with Jackson waiting in the car and then they`re home.

  
But life was never that easy. What if someone recognised Jackson? What if the curse was not that simple and simply meeting the Sheriff would not do? And for Stiles, that was the worst case scenario. As known every curse had its pitfalls. The simpler it looked and was formulated, the harder it would get to break.

  
_Find John Stilinski and tell him the truth._ Okay. That sounded simple. But the again – what truth? Should he just not lie in his attempts at communication or was he supposed to find out some kind of information relevant to the Sheriff and tell him? Maybe his significant other was cheating on him and Stiles was supposed to tell him the truth? Or was someone hoarding the doughnuts and Stiles was supposed to uncover that terrible crime? But why bother with a curse then? And a powerful one.

  
One cast it on the cards which through contact transferred it to him. Granted, it was not that hard to curse the object. However, it is a task curse, which basically bullies the cursed into doing whatever the caster wants him to do. Those were rare and hard to cast. Choice of language is also relevant but it told him nothing. Too many options.

  
What really bothered him was how cards seemed to communicate with him. They were written beforehand – they were not forming as answers to his words as if he held a phone conversation with someone, he would have noticed if they appeared after, it took quite some time, - which meant the author of that message knew what he was going to say. And that was scary. Because only a few people had such an ability. And what did that man who gave him the letter said? He waited for 23 years to give it to him. Which meant someone saw the future him and his reactions 23 years forward. Just a thought about that kind of power made him shudder, not talking about the preciseness.  
23 years ago someone designed a curse just for him. Meaning that he was destined to get cursed.

  
23 years ago. 23 seconds interval.

  
23 was Stiles` age.

  
That could not be a coincidence.

  
And it was scary as fuck.

  
“We are not going,” Jackson`s words broke through the fog of stunned silence.

  
“Are,” could only Stiles say in resignation. He was meant to go. His fate was decided 23 years ago.

  
Jackson began pacing, messing up his hair with trembling fingers in the process. “You`re magic. Just break it! You don`t have to do what they want!”

  
And Stiles already tried, didn`t he. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and concentrated. There was always hope. He pictured the curse as chains having a tight hold on his vocal cords. There was a lock and his magic was the key. He tried to do it as painless as possible.

  
He opened his eyes with a flinch when his magic was rejected with a metaphorical slap on its hands meaning _It is not for you to break._

  
He looked at Jackson and shook his head, nonverbally communicating his failure. Jackson's shoulders dropped.

  
“I..” he stuttered. “I, no, I…Don`t.” He gulped audibly and choked out a, “Please don`t make me.”

  
And Stiles understood. He honestly did. With a past like that. Nothing could rival his, he thought, but still bad. He wouldn`t want to go if he was Jackson either.

  
“Ok,” could he only say.

  
“I`ll call Jen for you, Jen from the shop ok? She should know something, she could be of help. And…Yes, yes, yes, she will help you and you`ll be back to your own blabbering self soon, and no need to go to that place, yeah? Yeah, good, good.”

  
Stiles could only smile with fondness at his familiar`s nervous pacing and spluttering. Stiles was rubbing off on him.

  
The problem with Jen was that she was a complete fucking idiot and did not know a thing about curses. Sure she had some cool rare supplies for breaking them, but she had no use for them as she knew jack shit about what to do with them. Jackson`s plan was soaked in desperation. But if that made him feel better…

  
“Go,” Stiles could only nod at his companion.

  
“I`ll take these cards and take them to Jen,” as Jackson was collecting them from the floor, Stiles bristled internally and hoped that Jackson would be smart enough not to leave them in her possession. “And you,” Jackson was already at the door then, with his back to Stiles, his head twisted round in his final goodbye.

  
“Just stay here, ok? I`ll be quick.” And with that, he was gone.

  
Stiles sighed heavily and gently placed his head into his palms. They could research together for the solution, or go together to the store. And yet he left him all alone in his apartment. The bond was thrumming with guilt. That is why Jackson decided to take everything in his hands and fix everything. As if he thought it was his fault and he was the one to fix it.

  
Stiles could only shake his head.

  
“Oh,” _dude_.

  
He stood up and went searching for his backpack. He would not rope Jackson in something werewolf did not want to do. Familiar or not, Stiles could understand and sympathise. He took only essentials – some cash, his phone, laptop, charger, car keys and a change of clothes. It was a four-hour drive.

  
As Stiles closed the front door behind him, all he could hope for was that Sheriff John Stilinski was a good man and had just a teeny tiny problem he needed Stiles` help to deal with.


	2. The Beacon Hills Sign and its Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' road trip gets interrupted and he gives in to his instincts.

The second he passed the "Welcome to Beacon Hills" sign, Stiles felt the road under the wheels shake. It was not the earthquake, though he wished it was because it felt like the town was **welcoming** him.

And it was beyond weird. And yet not at the same time.

He was gifted with magic from birth and as it turned out in his early years he was at strongest while connected with nature. But that did not stop his "mentors" from enforcing him to solely focus on offensive magic and spell work. Then came healing and protection. His inherent ability to connect to and communicate with nature was tried hardest to be kept undeveloped and even outrightly denied.

Good thing he got rid of those “ _mentors_ ”.

He never dared to call them _parents_ after. Just mentors who tried to raise him for their own benefit. He was so glad they never get to use him and his gifts. Properly anyways.

Now he wished he knew more because the forest acknowledged his presence and welcomed him as if he was a long-lost son. Somehow he felt safe just from the trees looming at his side. The feeling was barely familiar, yet recognisable. He could not decide whether he liked it or not.

He looked deeper into the forest as if he was drawn to it. And what he saw was...

Did that tree just wave at him?

He swerved off his line in surprise but quickly got back on the track. It was a miracle there was no one to influence by his reaction, as this sudden outburst could be fatal in any other road arrangement.

Stiles stared straight ahead, mouth parted, eyes rounded. He could not decide whether to speed up or to slow down to delay his impending arrival.

He'd heard of Beacon Hills, for sure. But no information had ever even pointed to the presence of the vast magical community. Or did it? But he might be jumping to conclusions. One dryad is not the reason to come to such an illation.

He furrowed his brows in concentration. _Think, think, think_. And yet the information was eluding him.

He was sure with every passing second there actually _was_ something to remember.

What came next were the siren and the flashing lights. Great. State police or sheriff's department - law enforcement all the same. That could not be good.

He slowed down and parked at the curb, waiting for the officer and his nagging of careless driving. How great was that he could not even express nor defend himself properly. He should've really taken Jackson with him.

Thinking about Jackson made him sigh. Despite the effectiveness of deceptive spell on their bond, Jackson would soon feel the distance and Stiles’ stress anyway. He was stalling. Although he preferred to think he was not raised as a coward.

The mirror showed him a tall built deputy with a very alluring five o’clock shadow whose whole presence screamed authority. If he continued staring he might even start fantasising. It was settled then, - stare ahead, be calm, inconspicuous, say proper greetings, show a high-quality fake id and roll along his merry way. But his treacherous heart could not stop the relentless beat.

Sheriff`s department as in sheriff, John Stillinski, who he had to find in order to break the curse. He really truly hated task curses. What if he did what he was told and yet the curse wouldn't break? They reminded him of icebergs as the true essence was hidden because while you _think_ you know what you should do yet at the last moment turns out the essence of the task is different and it inevitably fucks you up. So no wonder he had a very bad feeling about this man, the sheriff. Even though he did almost arrive at the town, insecurity and fear coiled in his gut.

He was not ready. He was not ready even a bit.

What was even the point of cursing him? What is so important to him meeting some _dude_? Or is it just a reason to lure him into the town?

What if there was a bail on his head and someone was eager to get the money? Witches alongside with werewolves were ruthless hunters. Especially working in pairs.

He knew he was riling himself up yet he could not help it.

The deputy walked to the car and lightly tapped on the window. Stile rolled it down and with a brisk glance at the name tag - Deputy Derek Hale - promptly said, "Evening". Avoiding eye contact with a police officer was a bad tactic, he was a man enough to admit, but all this unexpected fear of the unknown was making him dumb.

"License and registration, please", said a fairly gruff voice. Stiles felt a shiver run down his spine. Then he gave a full body shudder and could not believe his luck.

Speak of the devil, they say.

He dared to look up with his eyes full of fear and what came next was even worse than allowing a centaur to court him.

The man, Hale, had a red aura amidst which a wolf’s head was snarling at him. 'Hostile!' screamed his dumb, dumb mind so he gave an ear piercing shriek that every horror movie would love to have in one of their dramatic death-is-near moments, dashed to the opposite car door, opened it, unceremoniously fell out of the car, rolled, scraped his elbow and a knee, and gave a wild dash to the forest. It was instinctual to look for the rescue in the forest, but again, very unwise for following reasons:

  1. The forest was weirdly welcoming and dare he say affectionate?
  2. It was obviously the wolf`s territory so there was a high chance he knew every branch and berry bush there.
  3. And what was he even supposed to do in the bloody forest?



But as it turned out there was no need for reason number three as only after a few steps what seemed like a brick wall smashed him to the ground.

He thrashed and kicked, then thought what kind of a magic user even was he if he could not protect himself? He rolled in deputy’s grip and send a blast of electric currents his way. While Stiles was struggling to stand up to continue his mad dash along the road – which was dumb as fuck, he should`ve stayed in the car in the first place, - Deputy Hale was snarling and clawing at sparks attacking his face. Done with them he flashed his eyes at Stiles – and boy did he look _pissed_. Deputy let his claws out and charged at him. And Stiles, as clumsy as he was, had yet to get up and actually _run_. He had to come up with a spell effective enough against an Alpha werewolf and not tap out his power – he was low on it nowadays, damn those limits.

When Stiles was brought to his knees in front of The Council at the age of twelve, he saw no other choice but to run the fuck away. Needless to say, he did not intend to face those charges that were thrown around. But he could not run forever. Which meant he had three options: a) surrender himself, face the consequences and probably get locked in some supernatural jail and even be stripped of his gifts – and that was a big no-no in his books; b) run and strip himself of those powers so that The Council would be less persistent in finding him and it would be near to impossible to track him down – which was still a no-no, he would not give up his magic, no way, no how; c) face the most powerful magic users in The Council in a fight and probably lose – he did not have a death threat; so he went with d) he ran and restricted his powers – The Council was looking for a hot shot magic user, but he was just a druid level but with a twist now so as long as he stayed quiet and did not perform big magic spells he was alright.

Spells like right now, for example – but he could not help it, it came naturally to him as breathing.

He shot a powerful gust of the wind with his hand that probably felt like a punch to the face at the Deputy Werewolf which threw Hale three feet back with a flip. Unfortunately, his opponent landed gracefully at all feet and he seemed even more enraged now.

Stiles felt his powers drop too dangerously to the limit he had set for himself so he had one last try to at least knock the werewolf out.

Stiles gathered all his memories of unpleasant encounters with werewolf hunters and conjured a Shock ball of electricity – his own design and threw it at Hale. Once it touched him, the `wolf started seizing with tremors and clawing at himself and rolling then jumping at one place to get it away from his skin. It felt like being struck by minor lightning or sticking a knife into a socket – Jackson's commentary after accidentally testing it on his familiar, though how he knew how those two felt Stiles did not ask.

It was a good time to seize the opportunity, run around the hunter, get into his jeep and drive the fuck out before Hale called up other hunters to the party. And yet a terrible itch brought him to his knees. He rolled up his sleeve and looked at the Victorian house tattooed on his left arm – the lights were on.

“Not,” _now!_

_**He`s a Hale, you moron! In Beacon Hills! Just think for a moment!** _

And his brain got overflown with memories he failed to remember how he even got. Derek Hale, the first son of the Mayor and Judge Hale, Stanford and Talia Hale, the latter being the alpha of Beacon Hills and the leader and founder of Beacon Hills Sanctuary for Supernatural, who did not tolerate bounty hunters and feuds on her territory, who promised safety on her territory to everyone who sought shelter, who basically founded Supernatural Mecca and almost got her entire family burned for it.

Those shared memories would be the end of him someday.

Stiles cursed himself. Deputy Hale was no hunter.

While Stiles was on the trope of memories, the werewolf shook the last shocks and belligerently stalked to Stiles. When he saw that Stiles put up no fight but just stared at him lost and shocked, he dove in and tackled him to the ground.

Stiles groaned. And then whined when he felt his hands being cuffed. He wanted to bang his head against the asphalt in despair but was abruptly brought to his feet. He knew this town would bring no good.


	3. The Three Visitors of The Room

Stiles was sitting in the interrogation room shackled to the table by the iron cuffs with long chains infused with mistletoe and that had a faint smell of salt. These slightly longer than usual chains gave him some room for movement but not much and yet they allowed him to feel comfortable – as much as one could feel comfortable in a situation like this.

And the situation was – he was currently chilling in the interrogation room of the Sheriff’s Department in Beacon Hills because he was detained and arrested for attacking a deputy. Stiles straightened his posture, stretching his back – he could feel his muscles tighten in pain. Deputy Hale was a very strong and heavy werewolf.

Stiles sighed deeply and rubbed at his temple. If only he had not frozen at the sudden revelation that a member of a Hale family was not likely to be a supernatural bounty hunter which would trade him to the Council. He should`ve kept running…but where?

 Stiles felt dumb. This situation was actually somewhat beneficial to him because this way he`d meet the Sheriff faster and would not need to look for an excuse or unsuspicious way to approach him. And yet this situation sucked because he was pretty sure that this would all end with a phone call to Jackson. Not because of his papers, though.

There was no way they could find out that his license was not real – well, probably, he hoped so, that was to some extent the last parting gift from his parents, aside from bruises and burns, so it better be good, - as he was checked out by the officials before and everything was fine. So he hoped that he`d get away with a good talk with a Sheriff, a warning, a promise not to come back to the town and an ability to talk with full sentences by the end of the day.

Stiles tugged at his chains. He thought they were ridiculous – he was no witch; it would not detain him, or bind his magic, well even further, so it was really unnecessary. But this need for protection testified that the Sheriff’s department deemed him dangerous enough to attempt to bind him. Stiles was a bit impressed by himself and by the impression he had left on the deputy. He was not very experienced as he had a good grip on the theory, but practice – not so much, he tried to stay low and under any magical radar after all.

So Stiles sat there, behind the desk he was cuffed to, fairly amused and a bit jovial, his foot tapping out of tune in anticipation. He expected some officer of the law to get this show on the road. Everything was supposed to be easy.

What he did not expect though was a tall man in his thirties dressed in a dark blue dress shirt and tight pitch black jeans that hugged his forms deliciously to come in. The thick material clung to his legs tightly and hinted shamelessly how well endowed the man was.

Stiles’ eyes widened and he gulped audibly, barely keeping his eyes from wandering down the man’s body. He snapped his eyes to the smirking handsome face.

So what that he noticed. Anyone would notice.

Stiles was not attracted. His face flushed because it was hot in the room. And stifling.

Though looking at that face did not make matters better as the dude was pretty hot. And distracting. Jesus, things he could do to him… Or things could be done by the stranger _to_ him.

Distracted. That he was.

He blinked a couple of times, trying to focus on something that was not the obvious hotness of the man who had just walked in the room with a file in his hand. Stiles blinked, and blinked, and blinked, until a forest green and water blue aura with a black tint at the edges surrounded the man. Another werewolf, a beta this time, though. What interested and then instantaneously baffled him that the man’s wolf was not snarling at him like the Deputy’s did, as a matter of fact, it was not even remotely interested in the meeting him as it was curled tightly into itself, deeply asleep. Stiles felt a bit offended. Did he not kick ass today?

“You must be David,” greeted him the man. He was still at the now closed door, just standing there and staring at Stiles predatorily, with a little twinkle in his eyes.

“Wolf,” Stiles nodded, acknowledging him, laying the cards on the table, not willing to play unnecessary games.

The man was grinning unabashedly at him now. “Call me Peter,” the man, _Peter_ , had his eyes wandering all over Stiles’ face as if memorizing every detail. Stiles could not help himself but to do the same. “But I would not mind if you called me by any other name”, Peter lead on suggestively.

Stiles’ brain short-circuited for a moment. _Wait, what, like a pet name?_

He gawped at the stranger and nearly choked on his tongue. Someone was forward.

At his reaction, Peter grin turned to one of delight. That’s what Stiles wanted, to be someone’s object of amusement. Right.

He scoffed and looked away. “Asshole,” he breathed a bit choked up.

What he heard made him whip his head back to Peter’s face and it took everything in him not give up a lovestruck awed sigh – the man in front of him gave a soft but slightly rumbling pleasant chuckle which made a rousing and exciting feeling shiver his skin.

“That wasn`t really what I had in mind,” Peter purred. Jesus, that voice... Stiles could only gulp audibly. Cursed or not, he had nothing to say.

Stiles tried to back up and understand what was happening. So a man, he would not go in detail how handsome and attractive he was, just walked in his interrogation room, aware of who he was, his name – probably saw his fake id – introduced himself and then started to flirt with him.

But the very important thing that was skipping his mind was that he was still in cuffs, the department’s prisoner, while Peter was a free man who sat on the other side of the table. He felt like he was in a weird supernatural telenovela. But not to stray too far from the topic, Peter had the upper hand in here, with his ability to come and go as he pleased. Stiles was not happy about this inequality.

Peter just stood there, looking at him, but then he cocked his head to the side as if hearing something. What he heard must have pleased him as he once again smiled widely, took a step deeper into the room and sat across from Stiles.

Stiles though they sat too close. Or too far.

Then he thought that something was wrong with him because he could not throw away the dirty thoughts from his head and he only knew the man’s name. And what a nice name it was, to scream, to beg…The dirty talk was out of the table with his temporary – he hoped – disability, but on the second though, he could still scream “Deeper!” and “Faster!” and “Fuck!” so he supposed that all was good.

Aaaaaand sidetrack again he did.

“But that is not your real name, is it?”

Stiles was now entirely focused on Peter. He blinked at him owlishly. Then slowly tilted his head to look at his chest where his treacherous heart must have sold him out. He slowly returned his look to Peter who was still smiling, that bastard. How could someone be that happy? Was he on drugs? Could werewolves be on drugs? Wolfsbane drugs?

What brought him out of another deep discussion with himself was, “I knew it. Basically, you confessed twice. So how should I call you?”

It was time to get into the game, so he rose his eyebrows and pulled the most innocent face he had in his storage as if saying “I don`t really know what you`re talking about, dude, there`s nothing to tell.”

Peter only rolled his eyes indulgently. “My father’s name was David, so I`d rather not focus on that when I whisper sweet nothings in your ear when I fuck you against the nearest convenient surface.” Stiles' heart tripped over itself twice. “So the name, please? I won't tell anyone if you wish, I promise.”

Which made Stiles think – who even was Peter? He was no deputy, not a receptionist either – he saw a woman behind the front desk,  - not some random guest. Stiles peeked at the file in his hands, and yep, that was his case file, which meant he had to have access. Lawyer, maybe?

“Stiles,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

“Stiles,” Peter drawled it out as if tasting how it sounds. “It suits you,” complemented him the smiling bastard.

“So Stiles, I heard you sent my nephew flying three feet away,” and what? Nephew? Stiles was ready to facepalm right there and then if it wasn`t for the cuffs. So what Uncle Peter – eww, never again, - came to retaliate? “I am impressed,” or maybe not. It seemed as if Peter was rather inclined  to thank him, so he responded as he supposed he should.

“Welcome,” he added with a shrug.

At that, Peter threw his head back and gave out a delicious laugh. The long expanse of his neck was unmarked and looked so invitingly. Stiles was mesmerized.

“It`s like you are reading my mind,” Peter said, once he recovered from his fun. “I guess you deserve a treat then,” Stiles had a whiplash as from joyful Peter’s face turned once again hungry. And the food was not his first thought. And still, he decided to stick with it.

“Fries,” said Stiles and stretched, rolling his head and exposing _his own_ throat now. He then delicately looked at Peter, expecting a reaction. He saw bright blue eyes glued to his neck.

“Whatever you want,” he whispered, like a fucking creeper. Stiles was rethinking his choices in men.

But then he snapped out of it and looked into his eyes. “Some burger and maybe a milkshake to them?” And, huh, no mockery.

“Sure,” Stiles replied, suddenly hungry for food, for real this time.

“Not talkative, are you,” Peter was studying him intently. When Stiles did not respond, as 23 seconds were not up, Peter continued, “I can work with that,” and just like that, he stood up with Stiles’ file and walked out the door.

Just as it closed Stiles took a deep breath and with an exhale his whole body slumped.

 _What the fuck was that even?_ ” he thought. An hour in the city and he was already was making friends – one wanted to kill him, the other – to fuck. And huh, he just realized that Peter was a Hale. Coincidence?

Speaking about Hales. Only a minute of rest as a Hale – Deputy this time – stormed into the room with a deep angry frown on his face and the same file that had just been in Peter’s possessive arms. He strode to the table and sat at once, slapping the file on the table and opening it angrily.

“David Underwood,” he stated, and then looked at Stiles’ chest in angry confusion. “23 years old, resident of Cheyenne, Wyoming, spent,” at that Deputy Hale stumbled to a halt, but just for a second, Stiles wouldn`t have probably even noticed if he wasn`t looking, “8 years in Peak Wellness Center Laramie County Youth and Family Servs being treated from ADHD, OCD and a dissociative identity disorder, released at 20…” he trailed and looked up to a grinning Stiles as if he was proud of that long list.

Hale silently read the rest of his file, then closed it and looked at Stiles in unease. The dude was conflicted what to do with him, that`s for sure.

“Alright, David,” he said in grumpily and his gaze once again flicked to Stiles’ chest. “Tell me, what coven do you belong to?”

As if that was what Stiles needed for full happiness. So huffed out a, “None.”

He could not tell if Deputy Derek was confused, or angry, or whatever, those furrowed brows of doom could be anything.

“Why did you run?” he asked in a clipped tone.

“Scared,” he said a meek reluctance – he wanted to get out of there without any charges, that what usually happened, officers looked at his case, though that some obsessive thoughts were clouding his head, blah blah, called his facility to make sure he`d attend his meeting with a psychiatrist and release him. Getting into a fight with a werewolf and using his magic against said officer was a first, but he supposed that his life was unexpected and adventurous like that.

It looked like Deputy Hale was somewhat reluctant and ashamed of himself. Probably Stiles was not the first one who got scared by that demeanour. Plus just from looking at his file one could deduce that Stiles was simply looking for a shelter in Beacon Hills and here – Bam! – scary frowny werwolfy Derek. Stiles liked how this was turning out.

“Why did you come here, in Beacon Hills?” Derek asked reluctantly as if prepearing himself for the inevitable. And Stiles was not going to disappoint.

“Sanctuary,” he said and dropped his eyes, like a submissive lamb.

One beat, two, and he heard a barely audible sigh and a murmured, “Fuck.”

Stiles barely restrained himself from grinning. He did not even feel bad for making Derek feel bad – his back hurt, really, so payback. And a free ticket out of jail.

Derek straightened and tensed as if preparing himself for the battle, looked Stiles straight in the eye and said, “I apologise for my behaviour.”

It took everything stiles had in him not to laugh. _Peter would love to hear about this_ , he thought and his heart gave a weird flutter on which Derek zeroed immediately. His eyes widened – was that fear with a drop of surprise?

“I`ll go get the Sheriff,” he blurted and left the room in a rush.

Stiles burst out laughing – probably that moron thought Stiles was falling in love with a softer apologetic version of Derek, and then he almost choked on his spit because wait, what?

Did Stiles just hear that Derek was going to go get _the Sheriff_?

Stiles immediately straightened in his seat and exhaled nervously. This was it. This was the moment. The moment of truth.

He took a few relaxing breaths and looked at the door, staring at it emotionlessly. Everything was happening so fast.

The door opened. The man walked in. Stiles felt a shiver run down his body.

He looked just like at the photo. It was him – Sheriff John Stilinski.

Stiles’ hands shook a bit, his breath stuttered.

“I’m Sheriff John Stilinski,” the man said and at that confirmation, Stiles felt the shiver spread deeper, under his skin, to his heart, in the area of which Stiles could feel his curse reside like a heavy rock.

The lights in the room turned off but blinked to life a second later, rhythmically fluttering in and out in confusion.

This was it. This was when the curse would break.

Stiles closed his eyes in anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lack of feedback makes me sad.


	4. The Confession

“Son, are you alright?”

Stiles felt his heart stutter. He sucked in a deep greedy breath and opened his eyes to a hovering Sheriff just in front of him – his face was creased with a worried frown.

“Sheriff,” _Stilinski_ – he said on the exhale and barely kept himself from cursing – well, as if he could. So he closed his eyes and just for a second let himself mourn the fail of the first try.

“You must be David,” the Sheriff made an aborted move to shake his hand but then redirected his hands to his pocket. “Here, let me take these off.”

A moment later Stiles was already massaging his wrists.

The Sheriff took a seat in front of him and put his hands on the file – his file, that same goddamned file that Derek had left in haste.

Stiles looked up and studied the man's face – he was well in his 40s, brown hair with a few gray hairs, light blue eyes that stared compassionately at him; he was thin and tall, he looked like he could chase a criminal across the town but at the same time he looked weary and a bit sad.

Stiles immediately thought that Sheriff Stilinski was a good man. There was no other choice. He blinked a few times and what he saw confused him – the sheriff was surrounded with pale blue swirls that kept shifting and curling – they were restless. Something about them was familiar.

“Did you just look at my…” he made a controlled jazz hands move, “aura?”

Stiles cracked a smile and nodded.

“Well, it's as pale as ice over a frozen lake,” there was longing in those eyes and Stiles felt bad for him – he did not know why, why he felt so or why the sheriff was leaking emotions, but the fact remained.

“Specific,” Stiles said with a frown. The Sheriff did not strike him as someone who was into poems.

“Something my wife used to say,” he cleared his throat after that.

_Used to._ Stiles knew this man only for a few minutes and he already wanted to sympathize.

Their silence was broken with a young deputy – not Derek, unfortunately – walking in and placing an a4 piece of paper on the table in front of the Sheriff and then hastily leaving. Stiles zeroed in on a piece of paper which actually looked like a questionary.

The Sheriff gave a small huff and picked it up.

“I was told that you seek for sanctuary and wish to settle here. Am I right?”

Stiles nodded. It was a good and beneficial cover story.

“I am sorry for this inconvenience, but I will have to ask you a few questions, and some of them might be quite personal. Is that alright?”

“Why?” could Stiles only ask.

“Why asking if it's alright or why asking questions?”

Stiles showed him two fingers – the second question.

The Sheriff looked a bit amused at these charades.

“Well, we have a screening process – we must know who we are letting to settle in our town. We have to know that you are not some serial killer, or a darach, or an enemy of The Council,” Stiles' heart stuttered at that because _shit_ that was problematic but they could not know that he was who he was, the only source was himself and at the moment there was no wolf in the room, “or a bounty hunter for example. We have to make sure you are not dangerous to the citizens of this city,” he trailed after those words, “well, not intentionally anyway. And for anything unintentional we have help.” His face looked so kind and earnest that Stiles did not know what to do with himself.

So he just nodded and said, “Okay.”

“Okay then,” the sheriff echoed, then looked at the list of questions and took a pen out of his pocket. “We know the basic information about you, from your case file, and we want to reassure you that it's alright and no one really cares about that because it`s all about what kind of person you are, okay kid?”

“Hale?”Stiles lifted his eyebrow in disbelief.

“Oh crap,” The Sheriff pursed his lips. “There was... a misunderstanding of a sort. He did apologise, though, right?”

Stiles nodded reluctantly, still at least partially playing his character of a poor frightened magic user.

“Good, kid, that's good. He's...not the best one with people but...he's a good kid.”

Stiles could only snort at that and shake his head in disbelief. But there was no sense in continuing this - whatever this was so, “Questions?”

“Yes, yes. So we know some basic information about you, now I have to ask you about your intentions and plans and whatnot. So the first one – Are you in Beacon Hills for the first time?”

And so he proceeded with his questions which were pretty easy to answer – it was pretty easy to lie. Although when he asked about whether he was going to be joined by anyone or whether he had a family, he hesitated. He did not know if he should mention Jackson. But if a magic user without a coven was suspicious, then one without a familiar was outright dangerous. So he settled with a general acknowledgement of having one. But the Sheriff was quick to fill in the gaps for him – he mused the thought that some were very sensitive about knowing about their familiars so he thanked him in an appreciation for sharing this information.

Stiles' eyebrows could’ve climbed a 30 storey house if he did not keep himself in check – the Sheriff was a very nice man indeed.

As they were talking Stiles reached out to his curse mentally and felt it unmoving. His task was to tell the Sheriff the truth but all Stiles was doing was giving him half lies if not outrightly lying. He frowned at himself – he had to make an effort, if not for himself then for Jackson.

So when the Sheriff asked, “What do you look for in Beacon Hills?” he decided to make an effort and give a truthful answer.

He was looking for a way to break the curse. But that what was on the surface. As well as the answer, “ _you, Sheriff_ ”. But what was he really looking for?

He spaced out for a minute. If being truthful he wanted to be, then so be it. So what was he really looking for? What did he crave? What did he need?

Ever since he ran away from home, after that terrible fire, he`s been running, running for his life. He kept hiding, and lying, and moving; he pushed everyone away, he bound his powers, became a recluse; he was always worried that The Council would find him, that they would take everything away from him and what`s worse – they could punish Jackson just to spite. When Jackson went to sleep, Stiles had a habit of shutting off their bond – temporary of course – and let the panic wash over him. Then he would go outside, patrol his building and check the wards around it, then back inside and check the wards there too. Then after making sure that technically they were safe he'd have a panic attack and break down. With dawn, he`d open his bond once again as if nothing happened.

Being wanted was taking a toll on him. It was a heavy burden that was weighting him down. So the only thing he probably ever wanted since he was a kid was,

“Peace.”

The Sheriff looked up and met Stiles' weary eyes. He put the pen down and reclined in a chair. He crossed his arms and with a crack in his voice he said, “Jesus, kid. What the hell happened to you?”

After a beat of silence, when neither of them spoke, The Sheriff exhaled audibly and closed his eyes. “I understand you. That's what _I_ wanted for a long time myself.”

Stiles looked at him in confusion.

“I had it once. Peace. It came in hand with happiness and even elation. And then I lost it…I lost everything when Claudia…when my wife… When I was left all by myself.”

Stiles felt a tug at his heart.

“For the longest of times, or so it seemed then, I dreamed of having it back. To have it all back, to have her back, to have our…” The Sheriff gulped as if he was in the middle of a confession. The next sentence came nearly in a whisper. “But later I understood, that to a broken man like me peace was a painful reminder of better times. So I got back on the force and never lived a slow day since.”

That was deep, could Stiles only think. He was bewildered, though. He did not understand why would the sheriff tell him all of this? He did not mind this opening up to him, but this kind of stuff usually was trusted to friends, or family. Not a kid who was in cuffs just a few minutes ago.

Stiles was very afraid to admit, no to even think, that they, this man and him, have, probably, well, maybe, have some kind of a bond.

“Moved?” _on_ \- but of saying the preposition Stiles tried to articulate it. The Sheriff only smiled sadly.

“Did I move on?” There was a beat of silence. “No. And I don't think I ever will.” He exhaled once again and bowed his head a bit as if gathering strength. “My wife was murdered, David.” He looked Stiles straight in the eyes while saying it. “And I still don't know who did that to her or why. So no, I did not move on. I don't think I ever will.”

With growing horror in his heart, Stiles asked, “When?”

At that, the Sheriff only shook his head, as if finally coming to his sense and realizing that he had just told the tragedy of his life to a complete stranger.

“We are letting you go now. I'll give you a list of hotels and when we step out of here – all of your stuff back. Deputy Parrish has just left to get your car.”

The Sheriff stood up and Stiles automatically stood up as well.

“I asked you some general questions. But you will also have to talk to the alpha of the territory – Talia Hale”. Stiles cringed at the name – this city’s residents were only Hales or what?

“Don't worry, kid,” said the Sheriff, as if sensing Stiles' unease, “She is nothing like her son. Or well, it's better to say that Derek does not take after his mother. You`ll be fine.”

And with a squeeze to Stiles' right shoulder, The Sheriff left the room, leaving the door behind open.

Stiles could only stand there. Having discarded his feeling on this matter, he came to a conclusion that this was it. Maybe this was the truth that the Sheriff needed. The truth about who murdered his wife. To have his revenge and move on.

Although why did the “sender” of the curse think he would know who did it or even have a chance to find out years and years after such crime and after the police came into the dead end – he did not know.

 

Stiles stumbled out of the sheriff's department extremely confused and a bit troubled. He did not expect such a turn of events – just the whole day was like going down the rabbit's hole. The curse, the chase, the interrogation room, Peter, Derek and the Sheriff and his speech! Madness! For the past few years he was portraying a classic hermit and this, this right here was all of a sudden making him unsure of himself.

 He turned on his phone clutching to the hope dearly that a bright screen of his gadget would illuminate his face and clear up the previous events. What he found made him purse his lips in guilt. 13 missed calls, 7 messages and 2 voicemails - all from Jackson. Poor his familiar. Stiles tried his hardest to block his distress in order not to freak Jackson out but something must have trickled through. Or if it didn't then the lack of everything would also be scary for him. He should’ve left a note.

He was irresponsible under pressure. They both knew it. He banged his phone against his head as a silent reprimand to himself.

He unlocked the screen once again and what he saw made his brows furrow. One message from the unknown number. He opened it.

 

_Turn left and walk straight until you reach the Josie's Diner._

_Your treat is delicious in its hotness._

Stiles read the message twice. What the fuck was that even?

He closed his eyes and sighed – he was doing that a lot lately.

Peter. Peter and his promised treat. Food. Fries. Burger. Milkshake.

After a heavy conversation – or should he say confession – he felt like a good portion of greasy food was his only lifesaver.

And all of a sudden, he did not even feel like seeing Peter. Call him crazy, but he`d rather seek comfort in the bond with his familiar.

He started walking straight ahead while texting Jackson his whereabouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to post earlier - but I was unhappy with the chapter. So I cut it in half and just posted what I was at least partially contented with, I hope it`s alright.  
> Next: more of Sheriff`s tragic past and the town in general. guess from who. surprise surprise.but not really


	5. Tell me Sad Stories of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: (so much) sadness is ahead.

Stiles stood in front of the diner, peering through the window glass inside, barely restraining himself from taking a step forward and pressing his nose against it. He could see Peter talking at the counter, his back was to him.

He was not sure if he needed this meeting. Stiles prayed that both their interest in each other would not go further than perfunctory. The closest person he had to him was Jackson. He was the only one who actually mattered to Stiles, for whom he was ready to sacrifice. He was his fatal weakness.

He thought it was one too many.

And yet he could use some information from Peter. Though he doubted that in their conversation he would be the only one to get it.

Stiles saw Peter straighten and slowly turn his way as if he finally sensed his presence. He gave him a blinding smile that made Stiles want to cringe and smile back at the same time. Seeing that he was not moving to come in after this acknowledgement, Peter gave a nod to a woman behind the counter and started walking to the exit. Stiles had this moment, this one moment to leave.

He stood his ground.

Peter was in front of him a few seconds later having not rushed his normal pace. He stopped just two feet from him. And with his hands in his pockets, he just stared. Stiles stared back.

"Would you like to come in?" Peter's voice sounded playful. Stiles was starting to think that it was his default setting. "When we sit down in a booth I have an order for your food to be brought immediately."

It pleased Stiles that Peter was this attentive. But it was not the only thing he came for.

"Questions", he said as dispassionate as he could, not willing to reveal how badly he wanted to know more, more about the Sheriff, about what he needs, what truth is vital for him to know. Sure there were papers and the internet but he had more chances to find out more than there is to the story if he heard it from the person who was there at that time, who had witnessed it by himself. And if not, the information he had said that the Hale family was quite a big one, so Peter could be his only source not.

"Well, and I will happily provide you with answers."

It couldn't be that easy, nothing in this world was, but he would be dumb not to take it.

He gave a nod and at that Peter turned and walked into the diner, fully expecting Stiles to follow. And follow Stiles did.

They sat at the farthest table, the one near the same big window; facing each other, taking the opposite ends of the table and true to Peter's words just as he got comfortable in his seat the food was placed in front of him - a big portion of curly fries, a delicious looking burger and a strawberry milkshake - it all smelled heavenly to him.

He dug in at once. He dived in those fries hungrily not caring what could be thought of him. Peter was silently observing him as if sensing his mood that time for questions was to come later.

Stiles went at his burger then. It was one of the best burgers he had ever tasted in his life. His gentle moans and the roll of his eyes in pleasure were enough testimony to that. And all while Peter watched, attentively, hungrily. Stiles gestured to his burger and then to Peter, silently asking if he was going to eat too. At that Peter only shook his head with an indulgent smile. That creep.

As Stiles finished his burger and lazily slurped at his milkshake, he gave out a contented sigh, clasped his hands on the table and gave all his attention to Peter who was still watching him in fascination.

The message was clear - pleasure first, now it's time for business.

"I believe you had something to ask. Ask me anything."

Sure, Stiles thought, he could ask, but how evasive his answers would be?

He could not give himself out. He should start with what he, David, who wanted protection and a permanent residence in this town, could ask.

"Shelter," he started vaguely.

Peter hummed at his one-worded question. "Would you like to know about the town in general or what it would imply to be under Sanctuary's protection?"

Well, the population number he could find in Wikipedia and who the authorities were he already knew. He showed two fingers, saving his words to emergency butt-in in Peter's monologue.

"Ah, you are interested in privileges, of course. Well, as you must know then this land is the Hale land, my family's land, my land. Talia Hale is our fearless alpha and," but he was interrupted by a rather loud, "You?" from Stiles.

At that Peter smiled cryptically and said, "and I am a devoted brother to Talia, the "treasured, precious" member of her pack," Stiles did not like how he sounded and how he distanced himself from the pack as if it was his last desire to be in it, " the left hand". At this revelation Stiles gulped. Well, alright then, the sneaky ruthless left hand who did all the dirty work, good choice Stiles, we all knew you could. Stiles mentally pictured the standing ovations; somewhere far away in the dark distance, he heard a chuckle.

"Treasured?" Stiles asked inquiringly. He hoped that Peter would reveal his secrets to a perfect stranger.

 

"Well, Stiles," Peter  gazed piercingly at his companion. "The Hale land is one of the biggest supernatural sanctuaries in the US. Our perimeter is secure, it is warded, although how you got in nobody really knows, there was no disturbance signal...as if you've been here before, as if you are a resident here, " Stiles could only blink at Peter owlishly, he had nothing to hide - well not in this department, so having heard nothing Peter continued, "what is so special in our sanctuary is that everyone helps everyone, we are the united community, supernatural and humans are closely integrated although the proportion is 70 to 30, and from those 30 only 20 percent is in the know, while the others prefer not to acknowledge our existence, but that is okay, they are not in our way." Stiles could only hum at that. Nothing personal yet. "It seems perfect, doesn't it? Except you wouldn't even believe how many people want to ruin this little oasis we have. Many tried, many failed, but one stood out.” He paused, focusing on Stiles’ face, gauging his interest. “Seven years ago a group of rogue hunters – they did not belong to any specific clan, for all we know – somehow hid their intent from the wards and managed to smuggle the weapons inside the barrier.” Peter then paused, tense silence enveloped them. "They burned the Hale house,” he said all too sweetly," they surrounded it with ash and burned it to the ground.”

Stiles felt an uncomfortable shiver run down his spine. He gulped loudly and lowered his gaze. He could bet his life Peter was at the house at that moment. No one would have that look in their eyes without experiencing such trauma first.

"There were thirty-three people inside. Not all of them Hales, not all of them were even werewolves, and unfortunately, not all of them were adults." Stiles pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Not the children, no, just not them, not burning, not again. He could feel the beginning of a flashback come over him, but then the soothing vibes coming from his familiar stopped the memory onslaught. He managed to get a grip, straighten in his seat, fold his arms in front of him and empty his gaze from the emotions swirling inside of him. Peter watched the process of Stiles recalibrating intently. "We were celebrating Talia's birthday that day. We gathered family and friends at our house - the house full of targets and victims and dead bodies.”

Why the fuck did he ask, Stiles couldn`t help but think. He would rather have that easy banter where Peter would try and weasel some information from him and Stiles would only smile and chew on his fries. They should go back to that.

But Peter was not yet done with his story.

“We do not know how they surrounded the house that quickly without anyone noticing. We also do not still know who was the mastermind behind it. Sure we caught the goons,” Peter said nonchalantly, “the perpetrators, those who came up with a special wolfsbane formula to add in the water, those who infiltrated the official companies and actually planted it in our house, those who surrounded the burning building and were shooting at anyone they could see through the windows and doors, anyone who just tried to get a gulp of fresh air and not _fucking die_.” This conversation felt too heavy for the second encounter with a stranger in one day. Stiles did not want to hear the rest. And Peter, it seemed like he saw something in Stiles` eyes, so he shook his head slightly as if chasing away the memories, and finished such dreadful story with, “But as I said, we are a tight community. Half the town ran to help. Six members of my family died, four more were our guests. I was supposed to be the eleventh one. My sister and I were in a coma for 6 years. I was the only one to wake up.” Stiles barely kept himself together. Did that mean that Peter was awake only for, “Year?”

Peter relaxed at Stiles’ voice and smiled brightly. “I’ve been readjusting for a year. So much has changed, so many people came in,” he looked directly at Stiles, “I love it.”

Stiles only nodded and exhaled with relief. Good, good.

“All I want to say that we are a really tight community, despite us thousands living here. We help, we work, we protect. We do everything there is to be done for the safety of our town. We check everything and everyone before even letting them near the town.”

Stiles could not help but furrow his eyebrows in confusion because that did not make sense, _he_ got through, meaning there was a failsafe, a backdoor, a “Loophole.”

“You should understand that if a person comes freely here, then they live here, or lived and are still on an approved list as well as have no ill intentions. No one can break through the wards, no one had in these 6 years, although many tried. But you, my peculiar companion,” Stiles smirked – he was usually described worse than that, “are an exception to the inflexible rule.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Paradox.” A rule which was bent could not be inflexible.

Peter shifted a bit closer to him, leaning eagerly a bit more on the table, “Yes, yes, a paradox. So I just have to ask – how did you do it? What did you do to them?”

Stiles furrowed his brows but said nothing – time was not up.

“And while we wait, maybe after the next 23 seconds pass you can tell me why are there such sharp regulations on your speech. Surely it is no fun in limiting yourself like that.”

Stiles spluttered. Of course, Peter would figure it out. It wasn`t that hard, really. Get suspicious, find the minimum lapse, look for patterns. But the why is always more complicated than that. And Stiles could not let Peter know, firstly because usually curses were cast as a result of a malicious intent towards the person, and they were rare, so rare that you had to piss someone off royally – which Stiles was pretty sure was not his case, - and that meant trouble, and bringing trouble to a sanctuary meant a big no-no; and secondly if this is a curse, and to break it Stiles came here, in Beacon Hills – as he actually did, - meant that he needed something, - and he did, - and then his cover would blow and everything would go to hell, so why complicate something that is already simple right in front of you?

So Stiles just lowered his eyes in shame and with a sigh said, “OCD”. He waited a bit and peered from his eyelashes at Peter who looked a bit uncomfortable. _Good_ , it was not his business anyway. Stiles was sure this manipulative streak he got from his parents. He had toned it down since his childhood, though – what his so called parents tried to make of him was hard to call a human being.

“I apologize if I were insensitive,” said Peter. “And perhaps I should drop my first question as well because it seems like you actually have no idea how you got through?” Stiles shook his head – none. And he hated it that it was one more new mystery to solve.

“Very well. Then perhaps you`d like to ask my anything else? Would you like to listen more about the Hale family?” Stiles shook his head decisively – he had enough for one day, “Places in Beacon Hills you might be interested in? People?” Stiles tilted his head at that, Peter in response hummed. “But not about anyone in the Hale family,” Stiles gave a helpless shrug, “for now I guess. Hmmm…If I were you, I`d like to know more about those who protect us, starting with Sheriff Stilinski.” Stiles waited for a beat, two, and gave a very much faked hesitant nod – it was hard not to jump at it when it so easily fell into his hands. “Interesting choice,” Peter mused, and Stiles barely kept himself from rolling his eyes.

“Sheriff John Stilinski has recently won his third election to the office and ran, as usual, unopposed. He is one of the most trusted people in Beacon Hills, you can come to him with anything. John always has an advice in his sleeve,” Peter smiled secretively at that, “although,” he paused and pursed his lips, but just for a moment, “he might be considered the loneliest person in this town.” Stiles’ heart was close to breaking at those words. He made a go-on gesture, he was so close to getting his answer.

“I was just a child when Sheriff’ life shattered in pieces. He had a wife, she was the most beautiful woman in the whole town, and so _so_ kind, I remember her being a frequent guest in our house. John was just a deputy then, Claudia owned a flower shop – she had to be magic. She used to make the most gorgeous bouquets without even asking what the customer came to her for. People used to say that they were charmed to bring luck to those who give and happiness to those who receive. No one knew how she picked the perfect match of flowers for a person she knew nothing of.” That definitely had to be magic, sweet and innocent, thought Stiles. “She always smelled like them, like flowers she worked with every day. Flowers and happiness, it felt like the light was pouring off of her in waves,” Peter quirked a sad smile, “Her scent changed one day. It had a touch of electricity – we all found out she was pregnant that day.” Stiles could not help but think that this story would not have a happy ending.

“John and Claudia were elated, they could not be happier. Unfortunately, not for long. Her health started swiftly declining. On her 6th month of pregnancy, the doctors diagnosed her with frontotemporal dementia. It came out of nowhere and it was progressing fast. She was hospitalized. Doctors were afraid she could hurt herself or the unborn baby. She didn`t. However, her behaviour still changed drastically. A happy carefree woman turned into a secretive distrustful patient. She kept writing little notes to herself, or John, or the nurses, some of them she addressed the birds and caterpillars. Doctors were helpless, John was desperate. Of course, she had her good days and John would play a happy family with her.”

Stiles could not even imagine what the Sheriff must have gone through. But if she was already ill, then how did the murder fit in the picture?

“I remember being in a hospital one day. I heard John,” he pointed to his eyes, ah, he must have heard them unintentionally, “sobbing while trying to comfort Claudia. I`ll take care of him, he said, I`ll love him more than anything in the world – he will have everything, I promise you, I promise you, Claudia. And then he would break and beg her not to leave him. My family was bracing themselves for the inevitable – Claudia would die and John would be left all alone with a newborn. My family was ready to help with anything he needed. You see, Talia, my sister, was best friends with Claudia, she was handling the impending loss heavily. I remember us remodelling the left wing of our house, we knew John would need help and we were ready to house him and the baby and help however we could. Our house was already full of kids, my niece Cora was born just four months prior. We braced ourselves, we were prepared for everything – but not for what had happened.”

Stiles felt as if he had to brace himself for something too. He held his breath.

“On 7th of April she gave birth to a baby boy. She was lucid, she was happy. She felt herself growing strong, and John could not help himself but hope. He told me once, that he held the baby, just one time right after the birth. He could already see small things that resembled Claudia, small things in his baby face that resembled John. He said that he had never lived before that day. He had his wife with bright lucid eyes and his newborn son – he could not wish for more. Four hours later he had none.”

Stiles was so entranced with the story – Peter was quite a storyteller. If only the topic was different, he felt he could listen to him all day long. And, well, wasn`t that new to him.

“The doctors told John that his son had sudden complications that they had not noticed before, something with his heart. He died from the heart failure. After receiving the news John was devastated. I have never heard so much agony from a person before. He could not believe that it was true, he screamed, he begged; his voice was stuttering, his words were not making sense; he pressed himself to a wall and slid to his knees, hands covering his tear-streaked face pressed to the floor. I think the whole hospital could hear him then, those screams cursing the faith in rage and pitiful moans begging it to give him his son back. I do not know how, but he pulled himself together physically and morally, he knew he had to break the news to his wife. But when he came back – she was already dead.”

No one could be that unlucky, Stiles thought. What a cruel, cruel faith indeed.

“I am not entirely sure about the specifics,” Peter grimaced at his oversight, “but what I know is that someone overdosed her with some kind of drugs, which she was not even prescribed. All the deputy’s and the Sheriff himself did not let anyone out of the hospital – and yet they did not find the guilty one. After all these years no one could even find a reason why anyone would do such a thing. John blamed himself, of course. He thought that maybe someone who he had caught on the force was executing revenge against him. But no one fit. So to this day it still a mystery – who and why killed Claudia Stilinski. ”

Stiles could not wait to start looking for the murderer of Claudia Stilinski. He was sure that what Sheriff needed, the truth he craved was the name of the person who took everything John had to live for. He could not sympathize enough.

Stiles did not know, did not even have an inkling how to solve a cold case, but he knew he had to. Not for himself, but for a man who lost everything in a matter of few hours. The person who did that to him deserved what they would get when they got caught. And they would be. Stiles had no doubt. Karma was a bitch but usually a righteous one.

Peter and Stiles were silent after that, both lost deep in their thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the mistakes are all mine, as usual.  
> If there is something more you are willing to find out about in this story - please drop a line in comments. If not then anyway -  
> Please, leave comments on your way out - they are a great incentive to write. I didn`t have much to write this chapter, unfortunately, and yet I'm trying to give the best of what I can provide with.


	6. A Badly Covert Ruse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, look at the date. It`s been so long since I`ve posted, but here it is. I hope it was worth the wait.  
> By the way, it`s already chapter 6 and yet the story continues to unfold in a single day. Some days just go on forever.   
> But not this one.

After a few minutes of tense silence, Peter cleared his throat and gave Stiles a smile, as if everything that was discussed previously happened some very long time ago.

"Let's talk about you."

Stiles nodded in agreement - it was only fair to share. He knew his boundaries, the limit of the information he could give Peter and he would religiously adhere to it. And anyways, his 'selective mutism' was going to do him some favours.

"So this is what I've gathered, just nod if it`s true," Peter waited for a bit, gauging Stiles reaction and proceeded. "Your name, the real one, or the one you go by, is Stiles. The forged one was created to hide you from those who are after you," Stiles tentatively nodded, " and thank you by the way for trusting me with the real one for I understand why you could not be willing to share, but you did, and I promise you that with me you will never have to regret anything you trust me with."

Stiles smiled at Peter warmly, he wanted to believe that, it's been so long since someone knew him, or was about to find out the real him, Jackson excluded; and with no reason at all, he wanted to actually finally let someone.

"You are 23, have records of spending half of your life in mental institutions, which is..." Peter was fishing here because of the desire to be thorough, but who would in their right mind make something like this up? To make a crazy person of himself, to get more lenient behaviour from people, to get away with crimes. Okay, he could see the point, "the truth?"

Stiles nodded. "Do you actually have everything mentioned there? OCD?" Stiles nodded. "ADHD?" Stiles gave an ugly snort - of course, it was true, he could not even imagine himself without it. "Multiple personalities?" At that Stiles sobered and pursed his lips - he could easily pass as a person with such a disorder, and he did, for all those years. But was it the truth? In a way, probably.

Stiles raised his eyebrows and asked, "Problem?"

"Not at all," Peter shook his head and studied Stiles closely. "I guess it is a touchy subject that you would not be willing to bring up?"

No shit, Stiles thought. He could not bring it up even if he wanted to, it did not concern only him. And it was dangerous, such an information, in a way. If people knew, they'd burn him without hesitation. Thank God Jackson was not people, he was his familiar, meaning that he did not give a shit as long as his anchor, funnily enough, which was Stiles, was alright.

"Therefore I will not ask you any more about it," Peter continued, "as mental health is a touchy subject." He looked at Stiles' chest, having heard a blip. Because it was never a touchy subject for Stiles, he's been open about his ‘mental health’ since he got into the psychiatric ward; he just had no choice - that was a part of the programme.

"May I ask you then whether you have a family?" Stiles hesitantly shook his head – no blood relatives that he knew of and also after all these years, he still did know whether to count Jackson in or not.

"Perhaps any friends that may follow you here?" Peter wanted to know if he was alone, or if he could count on anyone in a tough situation.

Stiles felt his bond shift as Jackson was not as far away from him as he was before. Damn it, that arrogant stupid wolf.

Stiles sighed sadly, "Unfortunately."

Peter hummed. Stiles hoped he did not see any sense in talking about friends as it would not lead to anything – he did not have the words to describe, even if he wanted to.

Peter suddenly grinned devilishly, "Where are you staying?"

Usually, when a handsome face purred questions in his face like that he got hot all over, clearly getting the implications. Right now, though - nothing.

Weird.

So he just shrugged indicating that he did not have an inkling.

"There's a good hotel in the middle of the town where all the newcomers usually stay till they rent or buy a house, or a condo, whichever you prefer."

Stiles involuntary scrunched his nose in distaste - him and other people? After years of hiding from other supernaturals for all the aforementioned reasons? "I thought so," Peter said as if reading his mind. "That's why I would recommend you a motel near the edge of the city, it's very...hmm... _discrete_." And the flirty grin was back.

Stiles frowned at his own lack of emotional response once again.

Peter's flirt faltered and he appropriated a neutral resigned expression. Who could blame him, when Stiles had no desire written all over his face, not even a hint in his scent.

"I understand your hesitance to trust or... engage with me," he slid his hands over the table and gently took Stiles'. "I don't know you and you don't know me either. But I can promise you right here and right now that I will never hurt you. Under no circumstances, I am to do you harm." Stiles frowned - he knew this man only for a few hours, and ‘knew’ was a pretty tight fit, and yet Peter, the right hand of the Hale pack, whose usual setback was distrust to everything and everyone, was proclaiming himself harmless when it came to Stiles. He could not understand it. His heart did not even stutter at such supposedly gentle proclamation

"I don't understand it either," he looked troubled for a few seconds and then, "but there is something special about you, I can _feel_ it," he brought his lips in a light kiss onto Stiles' knuckles which Stiles regarded with wide eyes. He then squeezed his eyes shut and laid his forehead on the just kissed knuckles, face scrunched in desperate begging and whimpered in a tiny subdued manner.

This man, Peter Hale, the left hand of the Hale pack, of the patrons of the Mecca. A person did not hold such a position by accident - they were ruthless, ready to do anything for the safety of their pack, and by default for the town, ready to kill anyone standing in their way. A left hand should possess a cold heart that would not hesitate to dip their hands into pools of blood. They did not have soft spots, even within the pack, nor any feeling of mercy or sympathy. They were chiefly feared for that.

Peter Hale was nothing like that, not with his face pressed to Stiles' hands.

Such a reverent position, such a raw and open expression. The feelings Peter was pouring on Stiles...it should've been overwhelming, it should've impressed Stiles, made him feel special. And instead...

Nothing.

As if someone tore his heart out and left the space empty. As if someone cut the strings to his feelings.

And that should not be like that.

Wrong.

He felt _wrong_ as if something was crawling under his skin.

Stiles focused on the tattoo on his wrist and immediately felt a faint burning sensation pulsing under the skin.

Rage flooded him. He tore out his hand from Peter's hold, jolting him out of the tender moment.

He jumped to his feet, barked imperatively, "Wait!" at the bewildered and hurt face of his companion and went searching for the bathroom.

 

When Stiles finally found it, he stormed into the bathroom but held out the door for it not to bang and alarm all the guests of the establishment. He was temporarily curbing in his feelings - he planned to unleash them on the perpetrator, not on soulless objects. He gripped the sink and transferred his weight onto it, then slowly raised his head and mustered his best glare – his reflection just grinned at him from the mirror.

“ _What did you do_?” he growled at, technically, himself.

“ ** _Hello, lover_** ,” he heard a cheeky response.

Stiles rolled his eyes in irritation and grumbled, “ _I hate it when you say it – we are not lovers!_ ”

His reflection crossed his arms and said in faux petulance, **_“And the hand in your pants at night does what? Knitting? Six years of couples therapy and we still need to work on your acceptance.”_**

Stiles thought he probably looked like a fool grimacing at himself in the mirror in silence.

_“Oh for the love of all that is holy,”_ Stiles slumped in tiredness, _“Those were not couples therapy sessions! The doctors were trying to make me come to an understanding with my second personality and do my best to deal with it. But!”_ he raised his pointing right finger, although the reflection still had its arms crossed, _“First of all – you are not me!”_

**_“Deni-al,”_** sing-songed the reflection.

_“You are not a part of my consciousness! Well, not in that way, not like a disease, though you are a fucking parasite when you try really hard.”_

**_“But we have so much in common,”_** the other-Stiles kept pushing.

_“I have nothing in common with you, you cock-blocking, sheep-biting cockalorum!”_

**_“Oh, look at that - that is definitely something from my vocabulary. I actually have just been reading Shakespeare,”_** other-Stiles commented in delight. **_“And also, sexually frustrated much?”_**

_“Yes!”_ Stiles exclaimed fervently. _“Yes, I am. Your demon`s scheming is actually preventing me from getting laid! For example – right now! You did something, I am sure of it. You trampled with my feelings, and not just any feelings, but feeling to Peter!”_ came out in a miserable rush. _“How come I do not even want him anymore? Just a few hours ago I could not throw his possible naked image from my head,”_ Stiles questioned, but his reflection just turned his head away and made a stubborn I-help-you-puny-human-not face.

_“Tell me why!”_ Stiles roared in his head, feeling a bit unstable.

Other-Stiles scrunched his nose in distaste and directed a glare at Stiles. **_“You were falling for him,”_** he spat in outrage.

_“I was what?”_ Stiles asked bewildered.

**_“You started developing feelings for him and it disgusts me deeply. That revoltingly warm feeling refused to be squished under my hatred, so I had no choice but to hide it and lock it away in dark dungeon-ly places of my astonishingly beautiful Victorian house.”_ **

Stiles looked at the reflection’s saccharine smile blankly. And then he laughed, drowning the room in his mirthless amusement.

_“I am not falling for that,”_ he said a bit breathlessly, wiping at his eyes. _“I am not falling for this I-am-jealous-you-are-mine-and-mine-only bullshit. Now, let`s try again – why are you doing this?”_

After a moment of hesitation, his reflection slumped and bowed his head in guilt. And with a hushed tiny voice, he said, **_“I did not want to share you. I was afraid you would leave me for him.”_**

Stiles narrowed his eyes. He could feel hesitation seeping into his bones, followed by sympathy and a desire to comfort. Maybe he was too harsh, he thought. Maybe he had to back off and see the benefits of the feeling-revoking action. Probably apologise too…

_“That`s it!”_ Stiles screamed in outrage, glaring at the faux-innocent face that was peering from his lashes. _“You have no shame! You’ve manipulated my feelings once, I got mad, and your best solution was to twist them some more to get out of the mess that shit brought in the first place?”_

Those feelings of forgiveness were not his. Sure, he would`ve bought that if not for thought about apologising. Because that, that was really pushing it, revealing the feelings’ origin.

The mirror cracked at the corner. Stiles once again leant on the sink with both hands and took a deep breath. _“This is the last chance for you to tell me. I will not ask again,”_ the cold of his eyes was drilling his reflection.

Other-Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes in irritation. **_“You were blabbing.”_**

Stiles blinked once, twice and furrowed his brows in confusion. _“What?”_

**_“You were running your mouth about us,”_** the other-Stiles growled. **_“You were ready to tell him everything and that will not do!”_**

_“I was not…”_ Stiles started feebly.

**_“Have you forgotten, Stiles? We are one and the same – I know what you feel and I know your intentions, your desires. You cannot hide from me, even if you tried – even though there has never been the need in that. You started falling for him and it had a potential to become dangerous.”_ **

_“You are wrong,”_ said Stiles with an adorably confused face. _“I would never threaten our safety.”_

**_“And yet here we are,”_** other-Stiles spread his arms in refutation. After a few moments of silence, he added, **_“And anyway, he is not in my taste. It wouldn`t have worked.”_**

_“Oh for fuck's sake!”_ Stiles exploded and went into threatening mode once again, _“How many times do I have to tell you that we are not one person, despite the physical evidence? My sexual preferences do not have to coincide with yours! It’s ridiculous! I am not you and you are not me! Human,”_ he pointed with both his hands at himself and then at the mirror, “ _Demon. Human-demon. Demon-human. See the difference? We`ve discussed this. And also – there`s agreement between us, you remember?”_ Stiles inquired obnoxiously. _“You do not interfere with my life, do not annoy me when I`m busy, do not do anything without my consent and always tell me the truth about everything, and in return I make you a nice comfortable place in my mind, which has taken a form of the tattoo on my arm where I got you a huge ass library to keep you entertained when you are oh so bloody bored with my mundane life and do not want to hold a productive conversation. And the most important thing that I promised – I do not kick you out! I let you be here, with me, have a place on earth and not there where we do not think or talk about, - and yet here we are! Agreement left forgotten.”_

His reflection slowly turned his eyes and looked at the real Stiles and said mockingly, **_“Did you really think I would abide your rules this long? Especially when this is the most interesting adventure in years?  Are you delusional?”_**

Stiles sighed miserably and gave a series of humourless miserable chuckles. He tilted his head as if looking at the sky and pleading God with the question, “Why?” Why him indeed?

**_“Look,”_** his reflection said in condescending pity, **_“I am doing you a favour. You do not want to go out with this werewolf.”_**

Stiles looked at himself in disbelief. _“Who the fuck do you think you are? You cannot tell me who to date and who not to! And also – where did this speciesist biggoting come from,_ demon _?”_ He emphasised the last word, pointing at the ridiculousness of the previous statement.

**_“Calm down,_** **spark _,”_** reflection in the mirror rolled his eyes. **_“I have nothing against werewolves – after all, I let you pick Jackson as a familiar.”_**

_“Let me!”_ Stiles scoffed in outrage.

**_“What I meant was that this particular one is no match for you, my dear host, and I wish only the best for you. I fuck who you fuck.”_ **

_“First of all – ewwww,”_ Stiles scrunched his face at himself in disgust _, “never say that again, argh,”_ he added a gagging noise also, _“and second of all, who the fuck do you think you are to decide for me? You have no right! And If you wanted to share your opinion then you could`ve talked to me like we do every freaking day.”_

**_“Well, this day is dragging on forever, I was afraid you`d be able to mess up too much before we had a chance to talk,”_** the reflection responded somewhat apologetically.

_“So instead of asking me nicely or giving me some signal, like, I don`t know, - a smoke from the chimney or drawn curtains – what the fuck did you think I gave you such a huge ass facade for, - no, you decided it would be better to...what exactly did you do?”_

The demon looked at Stiles in slight fearful shame, **_“I might have taken your feelings...for one particular person...namely Peter. Yes, I actually did it, it`s the truth,”_** Stiles’ hand tightened on the sink at that confirmation, **_“and when I say feelings, well, I mean particularly positive ones, those that make you want to jump him and kiss him senseless.”_**

_“I do not have those,”_ Stiles cried in confused outrage, but after a beat, _“I have those?”_ Which really, came as a surprise to him. Well, with a few see-through rips in the wrapping but still counts.

_“You have no right to decide who I date and who not!”_ Stiles repeated himself. _“I`ve been letting you get away with this for too long.”_

**_“Oh, please,”_** the other-Stiles rolled his eyes, **_“It was really for your own good – time proofed!”_**

_“Oh, you mean that time when I met a girl in a coffee shop and you made me spill my coffee on her after her enthusiastic flirting with me? Just because a few days later she got caught cheating and expelled from the university? You could not even have known that!”_

The demon sniffed, **_“Well, I did. Who knows what she would teach you.”_**

_“Or how about the guy who danced at the club? You made me barf on his shoes! And for what?”_

**_“Did you forget that we saw him hanged on the lamppost in the news? I did not want it to upset you. Imagine if that dancing, if you can call it that, would grow into something more?”_ **

_“So what,”_ Stiles growled, _“you want to tell me you smelled suicidal thoughts on him?”_ His reflection delicately shrugged.

_“And what about Dan? There was no sign of you, finally not a freaking sign, we spent a night together, decided to meet later – and voila! I see a text written from me that I am already involved with someone and was using him just as a one-time fuck and he was a fool for thinking that I would actually want to do something with him after.”_

**_“Well, you have to agree, that one night was making you careless – so careless that I even had 20 seconds to get a hold of your body and send a text, so – you`re welcome.”_ **

_“Why?”_ Stiles shouted in outrage.

It was the other-Stiles` turn to get angry. **_“He was involved in an armed robbery a week later during which he killed a young woman just 25 years old... Let`s say I did not want you to pick up bad habits.”_**

_“What, stealing? Believe me, there`s nothing he could teach me.”_ Stiles dismissed the demon`s concerns.

**_“You`re missing the point – he was a killer,”_** defended the other-Stiles.

_“And so am I!”_

Silence fell in Stiles` head. He closed his eyes, took a couple of calming breaths – it was ridiculous how many of those he had to take.

**_“Peter is dangerous too. I know it, please just listen to me, just let me tell you.”_ **

Stiles just shook his head silently, refusing any pleas. He had to try, for himself and for Peter, he had to try. He did not know why, but he had to.

_“Flo,”_ he murmured, _“Just give them back. Peter`s waiting.”_ He refused to look at his reflection.

But then he took one of many breaths – and he felt it. The warmth that engulfs his heart and spreads to his fingers,

Stiles looked up in astonishment. _“Why did you hide it from me? This is, this is incredible!”_

Stiles was choking up from the onslaught of feelings. So sudden and so great.

**_“I`ll keep an eye on him. Talk to you later,”_** said Flo dejectedly and retreated to his house, pointedly closing the door behind himself.

On the one hand, Stiles felt a bit bad – all Flo did was to protect him, those were his intentions, but on the other hand – he really did have no right to interfere so deeply as to take his feeling away. Because they were marvellous.

He felt his heart beating furiously, his face felt hot – the belated reaction to Peter’s last questions and his final declaration. He spent the next minute in self-doubt, thinking how could it be, whether he heard everything right. A happy chuckle escaped his throat.

This was the feeling he was waiting for all his life. The unexpected feeling of someone who might be probably so close to closing a gap and seizing it – he was close to falling in love.

And after just one date! It wasn`t even a date, really, half of it felt like a documents exchange in a very emotional bureau.

But it was, this was the feeling. So soon, too soon, just like in a fairy tales rich with their one true love`s and love spells, like a dream coming true, too good to be real.

The thing was – it was finally here and Stiles did not want to question it.

He straightened his shirt with a gleeful smile that did not want to be schooled. He was so high on emotions that he could not keep still, excessively patting his shirt, checking his hair and even clapping his hands from over excitement.

He looked into his eyes in the reflection – it was only him there – and saw the smouldering heat ready to break out. What he had to adjust was not his _hair_ anymore. He felt himself drowning – drowning in need.

In the same fashion as coming in, he stormed out of the bathroom, briskly walked to their booth where Peter sat motion and emotion less, hands hidden under the table, posture straight and resigned, waiting. Stiles barely stopped when he passed him by and barked an impatient, “Follow,” and went out through the doors onto the street. He ran down the stairs, took a few steps and stopped, checking whether Peter was following him or not. When he heard the door opening he started walking down the street, silently leading Peter away.

Two houses, a turn to the right, one house passed, turn to the right again – Stiles from the sudden boost of energy was navigating freely and carelessly through town. Finally, after making a turn into the alley, he suddenly stopped and laid in wait for Peter, motionless at the corner.

When Peter finally emerged he grabbed him by his shirt, manhandled him around and pushed him onto the wall.

“Tease,” Stiles growled at bewildered but somewhat pleased Peter. Stiles pressed himself closer to Peter, aligning their bodies, revealing their feelings. Peter’s lustful eyes were peering at him in wonder, and before he had a chance to say anything, Stiles smashed their lips together, burying those words with his tongue. Stiles breath hitched at Peter`s rumbling moan. He unclasped his hands from Peter’s shirt and placed them on his jaw, cupping his face gently yet firmly. Peter’s hands clutched at his hips, gripping them in a painful hold. As their kiss got more enthusiastic, Peter did not waste any time, devouring hungrily the broken moans, dipping his tongue in Stiles’ mouth, flicking it against the ridge of his teeth, tasting, probing. He then enveloped Stiles in his arms and abruptly fast reversed the position, pressing Stiles into the wall, wedging a leg between Stiles’, wanting to be pressed against him more. Stiles’ hands found their way into Peter’s soft, dark hair and then tugged and then held onto them for dear life as their kiss turned even a bit more feverish.

Stiles broke away first, gasping for breath, and still grinding against Peter’s leg. He let out a desperate moan at the feeling of Peter’s hot breath on his throat, at grazing, and then at full on nipping at it with his teeth. He soothed it with his tongue, and then just kept on lavishly marking his throat, fervently abusing his skin.

Stiles was letting out delicious little pants against Peter’s shoulder, while still persistently grinding, and tugging at his hair and keeping his mouth in place, for it not to diverge from the right track. He was aggressively pressed into the wall by a hot furnace, and he enjoyed that very much, but thankfully the cool air of the night kept him from suffocating from all the heat they were emanating.

Stiles felt that if he did not break his concentration from Peter’s mouth feasting on his neck, he would come in his pants soon.

But the slide of the tongue, the scrape of the teeth, the wet suction… it felt like Peter was drowning, or starving, and Stiles was his only salvation. And that felt so _good_ , just shy of too good, so perfect, Stiles was so _close_ …

A disgusting ringing alongside the vibration shrilly resounded through the alley effectively halting Peter at his proceedings. Peter froze and looked at Stiles’ face first, then down at his pants. Stiles closed his eyes – he felt like he was about to cry.

His phone was ringing. His bloody phone, which was ringing, stopped all the shenanigans and Stiles wanted it to fucking _die_.

“Are you going to answer it?” Peter murmured sexily, and Stiles involuntary twitched against his leg and then let out a tiny whimpering moan.

Life was unfair. The universe was against him. Humanity votes against Stiles having sex, ever.

The shrill continuous ringing was covering Stiles’ broken whimpers of despair and general unhappiness.

Peter dropped his hands from Stiles and took a step back. At such an action Stiles made an abortive movement, wanting to prevent Peter from going away.

Stiles dropped his head down. He pressed his eyes closed. The wind blew. He shivered. The phone was still ringing relentlessly.

Stiles did not remember turning off the silent mode.

He slowly pulled his phone out and looked at the screen – _Jackson_. He peered at Peter hesitantly before answering.

“Where are you?” the voice barked from the other side immediately. A beat of silence, “I know you`re in Beacon Hill, I`m here too. Now tell me where you are.”

Stiles was about to answer when “And don`t dude me. Don`t you even dare to say any unnecessary words, just tell me where you are!”

Jackson knew him so well. “Street,” he answered helpfully.

Jackson growled and asked, “Near the Sheriff’s department somewhere?”

Stiles could not answer him, so he sent out a warm affirmative feeling down the bond.

“I`ll find you soon,” Jackson grunted and hung up.

Stiles sheepishly pressed the lock button and put the phone back into his pocket. He slowly turned to look at Peter, who was tense and had his claws out.

“Who was that?” he asked gently. It resembled calmness, but Stiles could see right through it. He stepped closer to Peter and took Peter’s hands into his – and immediately no sign of claws. Stiles peered at him guiltily from his lashes and kissed Peter’s cheek, wishing to dispel the wary and suspicion from his face. He bumped his nose into Peter’s cheek lightly, barely grazing it and mumbled, “Later.”

Stiles let go of Peter`s hands, turned around and started walking away.

Guilt and regret were eating at him after he had caught a glimpse of Peter’s face shattering when he was turning to leave.

God knows what was going through his head.

 


	7. Loom Over My Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who`s back to actively participate in Stiles' life?  
> Familiars are so needy.

Stiles and Jackson were walking down the street to the Sheriff’s station, their shoulders pressed so tightly to one another that from time to time Stiles was derailing to the side from the force of the werewolf called Jackson; consequently, Jackson's job was to pull him back on the straight line. On the road between the Sheriff’s station and baby blue jeep firmly stood Dept. Parish holding a set of keys. As they approached, the deputy gave them to Stiles, warily eyed Jackson, but said nothing, and with a few apology words, he bid them goodbye and quickly left.

Stiles showed Jackson a wide grin and dangled the keys in front of his face; Jackson only rolled his eyes and grumbled a 'follow' before turning around and going back along the road they've just walked.

Stiles' grin slipped from his face, his brows furrowed.

Not yet, he thought. But he would eventually forgive, maybe forget.

Stiles did not know what to say to him then, while he was trudging through the street to meet Jackson and when he finally saw him and when Jackson`s hands enveloped him into a bone-crushing hug and when he was immediately sniffing and panting at his neck, steadying himself, finding his anchor anew– at the Left side of the neck, thank god – while Stiles could only pat his back comfortingly and keep sending some more calming waves of reassurance until Jackson's posture dropped in relaxation. And he did not know for sure what to say to him now. Even after beholding a sight of a hunched over animalistic posture and bared teeth and receiving the angry reprimands from the distressed looking Jackson, he still did not know what to say. No words of remorse could right this between them.

Jackson, when they still were living their lives in that tiny apartment of theirs, kept saying that they were pack, just the two of them. Even though Stiles was no Alpha, Jackson being his familiar still worked, and according to his books, such a bond was profoundly more intimate than that of alpha and beta.

Just after a month of their bonding, Stiles had to grudgingly admit that it was beneficial to both of them. Jackson, as the newly turned wolf, found his anchor and gained control over his shift, his senses, whereas Stiles felt more grounded using magic; Jackson also became an anchor of some sorts to him, the one that demon was unable to provide. But with that bond came responsibility and sometimes, as Stiles once reluctantly admitted to Flo - as if he didn't know already - it was a hardship. Because not only did he replace the alpha, gave the stability and calmness to him, he also condemned them both to hiding and running. It was hard enough to hide one person, but two… His nomadic way of life ceased once they had established the bond, for Stiles actually finally had a reason to settle in one place long term and to make a sound protection around their "den". And yet he created many restrictions for Jackson for they had to keep a low profile, extremely low. 

Despite Jackson knowing what he had done and why he had been running for such a long time, he still wanted to be with Stiles, be his pack, his anchor, his familiar.

Stiles did not understand that. Wasn’t it easier to find a conventional pack and join? Be happy in stability and first-hand knowledge as well as the experience of werewolfness? Jackson did not think so.

And Stiles thought he knew why.

His wolf had so many issues. His issues had issues which were picking at his brain and heart, nibbling painfully at small pieces of the surrendered area. First thing Stiles did after bonding with Jackson and feeling all the grief and misery, and self-hatred through the bond was sending him to therapy.

Funnily enough, he never had issues with his accidental forced turning; only with his past.

Maybe, but just maybe, Stiles subconsciously wanted Jackson to come back to his hometown and reconcile with his family and possibly ex-girlfriend. But that was just a very weak “maybe” and he confessed to nothing.

He was not sure what he would do if Jackson desired to stay. Such aftermath frightened him. Call him selfish or cruel or abusive but he actually liked undividedly having that rude idiot around, so sue him.

He was the first person resembling anything to a family since he was a kid.

Fuck. He _was_ his family.

He cursed inwardly.

As Stiles gave a sharp completely unnecessary turnaround he roughly collided with a steel shoulder of a leather jacket. The guy he 'ran into' was towering over him, trying to dominate with cold sturdy features of his angry face. He pushed Stiles away from his persona and after barking 'watch it' he stormed away, determinedly taking the same path as Jackson.

Stiles could not help but look after the menacing man. He noticed at least one gun tucked underneath the jacket as well as a knife protruding from his military boots.

That was a hunter, a very angry hunter in the flesh.

But that was wrong; he could not be here for the town is a sanctuary. Stiles blinked and quickly scrambled after the swiftly retreating man.

He did not know how the hell the dude got in, or what was he doing - maybe he also needed protection, maybe he was reformed, and he turned away from the path of killing, after having repent sincerely in his sins against the supernatural, although not likely, with being equipped like that - but all Stiles knew that Jackson was also in that direction, and despite Stiles’ insisted harassing about learning some self-defence, Jackson did not stand a chance.

He felt heat slowly spreading from his chest to his arms - his reserves replenished themselves ridiculously quick, although that might be just because of deeply hidden resources that he did not use in order to stay invisible from the Council. He focused on his bond - Jackson was a bit irritated, a bit angry and a lot worried with sadness on the side. No stress over the attack.

Maybe Stiles wad just exaggerating, maybe nothing would happen - Jackson was all of five minutes in his hometown.

However, from his personal experience, it was quite enough.

He knocked on the invisible door in his head, calling for Flo. It did not budge an inch. Stiles sighed and quickly gave up. A thousand years old demon could sure hold a grudge, and for what? Being called out on his illegitimate action? Being refused in meddling? What a self-centred dick.

Despite this childishness, Stiles was sure that if he was in danger, Flo would help. At least because his life on earth depended on Stiles', which in turn depended on Jackson`s wellbeing. He might have gotten attached after all these years.

He saw Jackson approaching his own car and fiddling with keys. The hunter was nowhere in sight. Stiles came to a halt, blew out a quiet, relieved breath - he worried for nothing.

He was about to turn around when he heard a mumbled “stop” from behind the closed door. That brought Stiles to a halt and made him tense in vigilance.

 He was just looking around, head turned to the left when a dark figure jumped from the alley from his right and headed with a tightly clutched knife straight on Jackson. Stiles only had time to exclaim a panicked 'Jackson' before his familiar got jumped. Thankfully, the werewolf had good reflexes, so he was just in time to turn around and dodge, but just barely. Enraged by his missed strike, the man started viciously stabbing at Jackson and the kicking him with elbows and when could with a butt of the knife after missing his target. Stiles thought it was an incredibly stupid strategy for a hunter and still a smart one. Such a close combat was obviously exhausting but neither stopped, nor Jackson in protecting himself and deflecting the hits, nor the hunter coming on the werewolf over and over.

And all while Stiles just stood there, glued to the spot, fingertips burning. The last time he saw Jackson awkwardly engage with a hunter he was still a human - it was a fateful night of his turning when Stiles consequently flipped his shit and made the hunters disappear, one by one, literally. Not everyone though, as one caught fire, another choked on his own blade. What a messy sight it was.

Right now, Stiles was trying very hard to suppress the flashbacks. He was not completely successful.

At this moment, Jackson was pushing against the hand holding the knife that was too close to his throat. He tried to turn it around and was somewhat successful. The knife glistened in the moonlight as it trembled in the hunter`s grip. It was pending uncertainly in between.

Stiles stood rooted to the spot as if in trance, face blank.

“Duck,” he said dispassionately.

Jackson turned his head and looked at Stiles in alarm, then with a rough shove he made the hunter stumble away from him just a step back. But that was enough for him to duck.

Stiles could feel the demon watching from behind the blinds, as well as his fascination and amusement at Jackson`s trust – because if Stiles did nothing, the hunter would just bash Jackson`s head in one swift movement from that angle.

Thankfully, that never came. He heard the hunter exclaim in alarm and hurt as the blade became hot and started burning through his skin. Before he could drop it or fall onto his knees from pain, the blade blew up into thousand tiny pieces, at least half of them biting into the skin of his face, neck and arms. He gave one final cry and dropped to the ground, unconscious.

The serenity of the street was broken only by Jackson`s panting for breath as he stared at the fallen hunter in distressed relief. He rose slowly and walked over to Stiles, hugging him tightly with shaky hands.

“You`re alright,” he whispered in his ear hoarsely.

There were no other spectators anymore.

 

As they came to the hotel room that Jackson had gotten for them – “I`m not letting you out of my sight,” he said and took the keys for the room №5 – Stiles immediately dropped on the double bed and closed his eyes while Jackson checked the place and dragged his belongings inside.

Stiles was so, oh so very tired. He could not wait for this day to be finally over. He did not remember ever having such a long dragging one.

Jackson now stood over him, looming over his prone form, brows furrowed in stubborn displeasure. He took a chair and dragged it to the side of the bed so that he could sit right near Stiles` head. Stiles thought his werewolf could not just be any more annoying, demanding answers like that, but he allowed it. He felt like he owed him at least this.

“What did you do?” Jackson grunted. Stiles opened his eyes and merely looked at him. “Where have you been?”

Stiles blinked at him and lazily sighed. “Arrested.”

“What for?” he bit out in shock. Then he shook his head and said, “Never mind. Even if you can say barely three words a minute, your loud mouth can still get you in trouble.”

Stiles smirked to himself. _Damn right_ , he thought.

“Will there be charges?” he asked now in a lawyer mode. Stiles shook his head in a no.

“Good. We can talk about it later then,” he got quiet for a second, but then found courage in asking, “Have you found the Sheriff?”

Stiles nodded. _And not only him._

“But you are still cursed?” he asked tentatively. Stiles turned his head to stare at the ceiling and nodded. Jackson sighed heavily. Silence enveloped their room. Both deep in thoughts, until came a concerned question, “What do we do now?”

_What indeed_ , Stiles thought. _What do we do?_

“Sleep,” Stiles answered easily and closed his eyes.

 


	8. Let's Live Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Child Abuse

As Stiles was brushing his teeth he tried very hard not to look in the mirror. When he looked to the side, toothpaste would fall past the sink and onto the floor; when he looked up, the toothpaste in his mouth would try to slide down his throat, which in turn would lead to loud coughing and spitting it everywhere; looking down felt too much like obeying; closing his eyes made him loose any feeling of space. So he had no choice but to look in the mirror, where his reflection was doing ridiculous things, like licking the mirror and leaving the paste all over it in the shape of different words and phrases like _You could be doing that at Peter`s apartment_ and _Go fuck Peter_ or _let`s go get drunk_ sometimes along the lines of _Go buy me a new book_ and even _Stop being so boring_ with _Let`s go prank Jackson._

It seemed like Flo was no longer upset with him but as a pay for Stiles neglecting him he wanted some time spent together and also gifts. Stiles rolled his eyes and bent to spit and rinse. When he straightened and looked at the mirror, he saw himself finishing shaving his own eyebrows. He took in his reflection and his hand immediately flew up to his brows for he needed some reassurance that they were still there. As soon as he made sure that Flo was just messing with him, he gasped an astonished _Jesus_ and burst out laughing. He then quickly tried to muffle the sound with his hand in order not to wake Jackson up. His reflection grinned at him smugly, finally having had got the desired reaction from him. Stiles wiped his face with a towel and with a quiet chuckle left the bathroom.

Stiles stopped for a few minutes in front of the front door to their hotel room casting wards around it for nothing to be able to come in and go out. Despite what Jackson periodically thought, he cared for him very much and always thought about his safety. Well, at least when not in any rush.

He closed the door behind himself and set off for a walk to retrieve his jeep. It was still early morning, the sun had risen just a few hours ago and the morning freshness enveloped his lungs. He was near the forest and he itched to go in, to wander there, to find out whether the rare spices of driads actually lived there. He even paused for a few minutes, stood in the middle of the road, contemplating.

 ** _“Let`s say you find them – what`s then?”_** asked Flo with a yawn.

Stiles could not help but yawn himself after Flo`s had resonated in his head.

_“You know, it was not cool when you did that when I was a kid and it`s still not cool now.”_

The demon just chuckled and made sounds as if he was stretching. Stiles just rolled his eyes and continued walking. He had a long walk in front of him which would give Flo his desired time alone with him.

Stiles could hear sounds in his head as if someone was busying himself in the kitchen, pans were banging, cutlery ringing, refrigerator closing, mixer buzzing. Stiles felt like face-palming at the imaginary culinary show the main purpose of which was obviously to attract his attention and make him start their conversation. For someone thousands of years old, Flo could be such a child.

 _“Sleep well?”_ Stiles asked highly amused. If he wanted small talk then he would oblige.

 ** _“Oh,”_** the demon faux-spluttered, as if he did not notice Stiles despite the fact that he was in Stiles` mind because he was so busy, so busy. **_“Yes, thank you. That was so very nice of you to ask.”_**

_“Getting ready for the day?”_

**_“It shall be a very busy day,”_** Flo responded carefully.

Stiles stopped dead in his tracks and frowned. _“What is that supposed to mean?”_

 ** _“Oh, you’ll see.”_** Flo murmured innocently.

 _“Flo,”_ Stiles demanded. _“What does that mean?”_   He could hear his heart beating faster, his breath became uneven, sight going unfocused.

 ** _“There`s no need to worry. No one will die.”_** He could already picture Flo rolling his eyes. Then he drawled lazily, **_“All I`m saying that it`s gonna be a busy day. You know - rich with events and saturated with werewolves` stink. Nothing new.”_**

Stiles rubbed at his forehead and started walking again. It really frightened him sometimes when Flo would start talking about the future or saying something concerning the upcoming events of the day. Flo`s relationship with time scared him greatly, but most of the time he preferred those feelings buried deep, deep down for they were useless in their essence.

 _“I thought we were good,”_ if Stiles could he would eye him suspiciously. And in a second, he got that opportunity because when he looked to his left he saw himself walking beside him.

 ** _“We are,_** **dear host _,”_** if those two words could be mocked any more they would run away and cry. Other-Stiles held his head high and was walking step for step with Stiles.

Stiles frowned and him _. “You know I`m not just your host, and you’re not just a demon possessing me.”_

 ** _“Then what am I, please, enlighten me,”_** the other-Stiles growled still not looking at him.

Stiles felt a miserable expression take place on his face. _“Dude, come on,”_ he begged. _“You`ve been with me since I was 9. You know you`re more than that. Don`t ridicule it.”_

Flo did not respond to him and just kept on walking.

 _“What do you even want me to say?”_ he pleaded. _“I got mad at you, okay? I`m sorry I did not listen to you, but you know what? It would be nice for you to explain things to me every once in a while, goddamn it.”_

The other-Stiles looked non-pulsed and just kept ignoring him.

_“I am not you. I am human, it`s my body. I am young and dumb, I am bound to make mistakes. My life is so fucked up, I`ve been hiding for so long, and still am. And then you decide to deprive me of only fun I could still have and for what? Why? Do I not deserve some happiness in my life?”_

**_“You do not know if he could bring you happiness,”_** Flo finally graced Stiles with a grumble.

_“Because you take away every single chance I have! Claire, Dan, Sarah, Paul, Frank – you made them all go away! And now, surprise, surprise, you want to drive Peter away. And of course, with no apparent reason whatsoever.  Such a rare occurrence, I`m stunned!”_

Stiles barely restrained from gesticulating madly and flailing his hands in all the directions. After all, in reality, there was no one there. He did not want to scare the people in this town, although the street was relatively empty.

 ** _“Stop being so dramatic,”_** Flo responded dismissively, flicked his hand at Stiles and rolled his eyes in addition.

Stiles could feel the invisible fume coming out of his ears ** _._** _“You know what, you separate projection is taking too much energy,”_ he said vindictively and flicked his hand in return, making the other-Stiles dissipate. He smirked to himself after.

 ** _“I just wanted to breathe some fresh air,”_** Flo grumbled.

_“You do because I do. That`s all you`ll get.”_

They continued walking for some time in silence with neither of them addressing the burning issues. Sure they argued sometimes, to go that way or this way, to pick an orange one or a red one, to pick one spell or the other, who was right in the series – the husband or the wife? Both of them had their own opinion and they were no strangers to clashing with one another. But it was the first time that Stiles addressed the issue of dating.

Stiles had never known what love felt like and it had started bothering him some time ago. It was just an irrelevant thought at first, then an occasional reminder, then a nagging issue, then an itch he could not get rid of. With each passing small period of time, he could feel it more acutely and needed it even more desperately. He wanted some love in his life.

And unfortunately, Flo was standing in his way. And he could not understand why.

Stiles could remember the very first time he felt the strange presence in his mind starkly. He was 7 years of age, so small, so thin, so fragile. He remembered every single thing about that day.

He broke his arm falling from a tree that afternoon. He did not see his father at its stump, he was brought into awareness when the older man snapped at him angrily, scaring him, catching him unaware which subsequently made him fall. He cried out in pain, but no heavy tears trickled down his cheeks. He had to be a strong boy, he had to grow up a brave man.

His involuntary actions still were not manly enough for which he additionally got hit to the head with a fist by his father. He should`ve not cried out. Especially after failing so badly with a water spell in the morning when a tiny trickle of water just hit him like a whip instead of flowing tenderly in the air and then, to Stiles` grief, it had hit his father, and boy was he angry; especially after he ran away, afraid of repercussions, afraid of consequences of something he had no control of; especially after he hid way up on that tree, nursing his side that was whipped with a blade of water.

He shouldn`t have failed and he shouldn`t have run away. It was such a dumb move, but he was just so sick of it, so sick of everything – his father`s anger, his mother`s contempt; daily training, daily failing; even if he got something right his smile of victory would be immediately whipped away by his parents` comment of doing it not good enough, not perfect enough. His control was shaky, it`d always been – his parents were so mad at him for that. He could always hear them say why couldn`t they have had a better child, a more capable one.

Stiles got hurt by his magic, again; and then he got hurt by his dad, again. And yet it was no excuse for running away. He should`ve known better.

Stiles often would reflect back on that day, on that training. Years after, it made him understand himself better. He didn`t have anything to eat for three days at that day already, water – since the previous day`s afternoon, so close to a day. When he was told he had to control the water for the sake of the exercise, he couldn`t stop the thoughts of thirst intruding his head, he wanted it so badly. The water would shakily obey him. But then he would get repulsed by the mere idea of having a drink without permission; it would become his temptress which would lead to father`s anger, and he`d been dodging it for so long, almost close to a week then, he did not want such a small thing like a desire to wet his throat to ruin that. He disliked the water and the water reflected those feelings, it disliked him back but more proactively.

Later, already in the asylum, he vowed to never hate the elements for they had done nothing to him. People were the other matter completely.

He could remember himself lying on the ground, cradling his sprained arm. He could remember his father standing above him, angrily gesticulating and spitting words after words. His belligerent stance scared Stiles, but after all, when did his dad not scare him. He could remember the sudden sharp pain in his ribs, the dust rose from the ground from the movement, Stiles tried to turn away, to lean on his other side, equally bruised but not so throbbingly achy at that moment.

Every scenario Stiles thought of later, years later, could not have prevented from what happened after. Sure, he thought, maybe if he was better, like his parents wanted, maybe if he tried harder, if he was not so selfish, if he had fewer needs, and desires, and most of all attitude, and thoughts, and words…The best thing that asylum he got into when he was 12 did was to bleach those thoughts from his head, ban them and make them scared to ever appear again. But three years and time prior he had his mind occupied by them.

He was nine, his arm was sprained, back bruised – from falling and his father`s temper, so basically, when was it not bruised? – he was just lying on the ground, pathetically if he could recall his father`s words, although he now preferred not to when he got yanked by his leg and dragged through the forest back home. His face, neck, hands, torso – all in little scratches from being dragged through the dirt, hooked by the branches and spikes of bushes, tripped by roots, bit by nettles.

He could remember the pain, every new scratch felt even more painful than the previous one. And yet, his desire to drink, the rawness of his throat stood out the most. He feared what would come once they reached their home, he feared what would happen after they have emerged from the woods he hid in that was on the other part of the town, he feared the long drag home. His thoughts were occupied by water though.

He disliked it first after it had given him such a gift, and then he hated it, so that`s why it hit him as if it was a punishment for the lack of his gratitude, his love.

What had he ever done to his parents to hate him so much and hit him in such an amplified punishment?

Years had passed until he stopped thinking of himself as a disappointment.

He was supposed to be a brave one, to grow up strong; and he was, he did not pass out, he endured all the way home, he suffered through without a single drop of tears that were stinging so badly at his eyes.

After the dirt came asphalt, then stairs, then finally the carpet in front of their back door, then the one inside. He remembered his mother bending over him and tutting, “Oh, Derry, what should I do with you?” She would sigh and shake her head as if he was a lost cause as if nothing could save him.

“Draw the circle!” Would bark his father, fortunately - not at Stiles, unfortunately - for Stiles.

Some time later he would be dragged to the basement, to the middle of the intricate circle. He was contemplating the approximate time his body would take to heal and when he would be able to easily hide any wince. To say he did not want any more trouble was to say nothing. So he kept quiet and asked no questions. At first.

“Evander, my boy,” his father would say then, say that horrible name that did not belong to him, it had to be not his, it never sat right with him, especially when it took part in his spells, it always backfired. “I will make you stronger, by any means.”

That face, that stern, determined face of his father would haunt him for years to come. He remembered how his father yanked his hands painfully, jolting the sprained one and tied them behind his back. At his panicked questions about what was going on, he would be silenced. He remembered the panic attack. He remembered how air was not coming to his lungs, how he was gasping for it, how he thought that maybe water deprivation was not enough and he deserved the air one too. He did not remember passing out though. What he did remember was chanting and fire, smoke and darkness. His brain hurt as if someone was pouring acid on his cells; every part of his body felt wrong, dirty, violated. Something very dark and old was forcing itself on him and despite his struggles and pleas, it did not stop and eventually won. He did not have a voice to scream out in pain for he had already exhausted his vocal cords without even noticing.

It was the worst feeling he had ever experienced in his life.

And then there was nothing. Literary nothing. He felt nothing, not himself not anything around him. He did not understand whether he was in the dark, whether there was even time.

He thought he was dead. He thought he was dead for a very long time.

As it turned out, he was ‘dead’ for 1 year, 3 months and 19 days. On the day of his waking up, the one that was supposed to be the 20th day of the 15th month, he came to his hand holding a kids` throat, who was almost blue when Stiles jerked his hand back in pure horror. He looked around frantically, begging with his eyes someone to help him, and he spotted his father first, namely angry confusion on his contorted face. Stiles would start making steps back, stumbling over his own feet, panicking, gasping for breath, scared out of his mind.

Everything went black then again.

When he came back to the world, as he found out once again later, only three days had passed that time. He stood in the middle of the forest. It was night. His head hurt, legs shook; stomach was clawing at him in hunger.

It was very hard to concentrate. The voice kept resonating through the forest. At first, he could not understand where it came from, he kept jerking to different sides, his eyes jumping from one tree to another, looking for the source. He was so scared. He could not understand what was happening except for that he had ground under his feet and he could feel himself finally _breathe_.

The voice kept murmuring in some unknown language, scaring the bejesus out of Stiles. His body shook, he was ready to break down, fall onto his knees and break out in tears.

He had no one to cry for, even if there was someone nearby. No one would help. He could feel it was somehow his parents` fault. He was sure it was his too.

When he could finally locate the source of the voice and it hurt, even more, he took his head in both of his hands, bent over and screamed.

He did not know how much time passed. He then just sat there, on the familiar dirt floor and sobbed brokenly into his torn dirty shirt.

 ** _“Evander,”_** he would hear his own voice say, but _he_ didn`t say anything, so he just shrank into himself even more and shook his head. He refused to respond to that name, it was not his, he was sure, it could not be.

 ** _“Look at me,”_** the voice said patiently. **_“Calm down and look. Be brave and look.”_**

And he was brave, wasn`t he? He took a deep final breath, forced his body to relax and peered out from behind his arms.

He saw a young boy, it was himself. It was him, it was, but the one who sat in front of him had sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, his hair was longer than he used to have and it was dishevelled, sticking out in different directions.

Stiles was scared, but it was wrong, he had to be brave, everyone always told him he had to be brave. So he asked boldly, “What is wrong with you?”

The other-Stiles smiled at him sympathetically. **_“This is how_ you _look,”_** he answered.

Stiles` hands immediately flew to his own face, touching, wondering at every detail, then to his body, his ribs, his stomach, then his arms caught his attention and he somehow felt that he was _wrong._

“What is wrong with _me_?” Stiles looked at the other self in panic, as if he had all the answers. Which he actually did.

 ** _“You don`t eat enough,”_** he heard the answer. **_“To be exact, you are not fed enough.”_**

Stiles slowly nodded. That was fine, he was used to it, but never had he been so thin in his life.

 ** _“Ah, I see,”_** the other-Stiles said as if having heard his thoughts. **_“I guess your parents are used to feeding you close to nothing at all.”_** He was looking intently at Stiles. **_“Do you love them?”_**

Stiles frowned at that question and then gave a slight hesitant nod.

 ** _“What for?”_** his companion sounded very curious. **_“After all they`ve done to you, how they treated you, after all the broken bones and dark bruises and words of disgust, how can you say that you love them?”_**

Stiles tried his hardest but he could not understand the question. He felt sick, and hungry, and achy all over. And also he did not want to answer that question, they were his parents, this love for them was inbuilt, he had to love them.

So he didn`t. He just stared at himself blankly, his lip wobbling.

“Why are we here?” Stiles could only ask in his best brave voice.

 ** _“We ran away,”_** was a simple answer. For Stiles not to ask the obvious question that he was clearly burning to ask judging by his confused face he continued. **_“We ran away because we did not like being there.”_**

“With my parents?” Stiles still could not understand. It all sounded ridiculous to him. “But where else would we go?”

The other-him was clearly surprised. **_“Anywhere,”_** he answered.

“But wouldn`t they miss us?”

When Stiles reflected on his first introduction to Flo, he would always reprimand himself for his naivety. He was supposed to think about himself because he came first; he should`ve had though what he needed and not his parents. But the program his parents brainwashed him wish worked steadily and unwaveringly.

“They can`t do without me. They need me.” Stiles had such an open and honest face. He looked around hastily. He was about to get up. “We should go back. Dad will get mad if we`re away for too long.”

He could see a small sympathetic smile on his other-self`s face. **_“I`ve run so fast and so long, let me catch my breath and we will go.”_** Stiles felt as if he needed to catch his breath too. They probably were running together.

“Are you my brother?” he could not help but ask.

**_“No, I am not.”_ **

Stiles quickly scooted back but managed just an inch. “What are you?” He already knew that many creatures walked this world, what if he was looking at some evil shapeshifter that would want to take his organs to keep this form? His dad said he should kill them on sight. Stiles did not know yet if he could.

 ** _“I am a spirit, a soul that got trapped in your body.”_** That for some reason did not scare Stiles. It felt necessary for him though to touch his head. **_“It was very hard to acclimatise to being in a body again and that`s why I involuntary took control fully. For that I apologise, it was not my right to take you away from you.”_**

His self`s face looked so sincere and apologetic that Stiles could not hold any grudge against him. He could understand that magic was hard and it did not always behave like he wanted it to.

“How can I see you?” It clearly was time to be curious.

The kid in front of him chuckled slightly, amused. **_“If someone would come here, that person would see only you talking to an empty space, or well, to a forest, who knows you, nature boy.”_** It was clearly his intention to make Stiles smile but that comment made no sense to him. At that, a slight frown creased the other-Stiles` forehead, but he continued. **_“I am in your head, only in your head, we share a body as I`ve already mentioned. Me sitting in front of you? Well, just think of it as a projection. I thought it would be easier for us to talk if you could see me as well, and not just hear the voice in your head.”_**

It seemed all very strange for him, but what bothered him most was, “Am I going to die?”

The other-Stiles was clearly baffled at that question. **_“Why would you think that?”_** He even looked a bit offended.

“Well,” Stiles started shyly, “Everyone knows that only one soul can be in the body. And, I think,” he continued in hesitation, “I feel like you are stronger than me, so...”

 ** _“Ah,”_** could only gasp the other-Stiles. **_“Do not worry, child, you will not die. In fact, I will do everything possible for you to live as long as you can.”_**

Stiles was confused again. “But why?”

**_“It is your right. This is what you deserve. To have a full happy life, even with me being in your head.”_ **

Stiles was such a kid then. Every word that demon said was aimed at making friends with him, at making him comfortable around him. He posed himself as his prince in shining armour like from all those fairy tales Stiles was hiding under the floorboards, that would shield him from all the troubles and help him along the way. And that`s all that Stiles ever wanted. He knew since he was little that he could not be loved, he did not deserve it for he did not work hard enough. But someone finally protecting him? Helping him? He was a little deprived of mother`s love boy, how could he say no?

Stiles beamed then at his other-self. “Like a guardian angel?”

The boy chuckled. The irony was not lost on him. **_“Yes, exactly like that. But more useful I guess.”_**

The thing was that the demon was actually useful, most of the time. And his main goal was to keep Stiles safe. With years it was not only for selfish reasons.

Stiles felt giddy. He was so happy. “What is your name?”

**_“Flavros, young boy. My name is Flavros.”_ **

Stiles scrunched his face at that name and said out of a blue, quickly assuming, “I have a weird name that I don`t like too.” He paused and then said decisively, “I will call you Flo.” And nodded to himself.

Flo smiled at him indulgently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are profoundly disturbed and outraged. Even I am.


	9. A Sense of Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. No comments for the last two chapters, not even a single one. It really bummed me out.  
> And yet, here's the new chapter.

And then Peter came running out of nowhere.

He stopped a few feet from Stiles, posture tense, clothes dishevelled; his eyes were wandering, jumping from one side to the other. The crazed-eyed look did not suit him, Stiles thought numbly. It rendered him speechless.

“Peter?” he inquired hesitantly.

Peter jerked to the source of the voice, but could not focus on Stiles for more than a few seconds. He started pacing, but every few meters he would come to an abrupt halt and direct himself the other way.

“Did you hear it?” he rushed. “I heard it, somewhere here, somewhere, somewhere there, it was...” he choked out stiltedly and looked around as if lost – Stiles’ head would start to spin soon; Peter’s abrupt and wide movements reminded him of an actor in the theatre, running from one side of the stage to the other, looking for something in the crowd.

Peter breathing became laboured as if he was choking on air. Panic was setting in, piercing his heart and brain.

“Did you hear her?” Peter stopped and stared straight at Stiles, who, in his turn, waited with baited breath for the continuation of the wild monologue that might clear something up – while waiting he already found out that it was a _she_.

“She... she was,” Peter could barely find words, “...that _scream_! It pierced through the forest. Scared, so scared, she screamed...I have to, I have to...the pain, she sounded...find her, find her.” He ran up to Stiles, snatched his hand and squeezed it in an unforgiving grip. Having his full attention, he peered into Stiles’ eyes and pleaded desperately, “Find her.”

Stiles squeezed back and with his second hand, he cupped the left side of Peter’s face.

“Calm,” he tried to sound as soothingly as he could. Peter was a spooked deer, ready to bolt at any minute. As Stiles gently caressed his cheek, Peter closed his eyes and relaxed his posture.

“I can`t find her,” he mumbled. “Will you help me?”

Peter sounded so sincere that it softened something inside Stiles. He kissed the corner of Peter’s mouth and firmly agreed.

Peter exhaled with relief and straightened. “I don`t know who she is, the girl who screamed. Her voice, so full of anguish, I just had to find her.” Confusion creased his forehead. “But I couldn`t. I`d hear her, and run, and then she`d stop, and I`d lose her. I want to help, but I can`t _find_ her. There`s no smell. I kept running, moved by assumption...” and then Peter violently flinched to the side and looked at the forest they stood near. “There,” he whispered. And with a newfound urgency, he tugged at Stiles’ hand, dragging him along to the forest. “We have to go,” Peter urged.

Stiles did not hear a thing. He wrote it off to werewolf’s hearing. He never saw such flighty behaviour outside his centre for crazies. He liked it there though, most of the time, considering he had nowhere to go anyway.

So he did the only thing reasonable and said, “Lead.”

And so they darted off together into the woods, Stiles hot on Peter’s heels.

 

"Stop!"

Stiles burst into the clearing with those words rushing out of him. He immediately drew his hands up and with that as if mimicking their puppeteer’s position all the pins and rocks rose from the ground and stilled in threatening formation around the hunter - it was obviously a hunter, he looked like a typical one, with all that clothes and crude face; Stiles was sure there was a black SUV somewhere - who had a knife pressed to a throat of a young sobbing woman. She had her hair loose but tampered with because of the gag that she was choking on. The skin around her cheeks was reddened as the rope that was soaked wet with tears was biting into it with every movement. That girl could not have screamed just a few minutes ago.

And yet Peter was right – there was a girl who needed help. They spotted her on her knees in front of the hunter just about 8 minutes into the woods.

“Let her go,” growled Peter at his right.

“You have no business here,” the man deflected through his teeth.

Stiles was tense all over; fear was pooling in his gut.

“I will not stand here while you sentence this woman to death,” Peter could barely restrain himself from lunging.

"Do you even know what she has _done_?" the hunter to his right sneered. Just a small team of two had captured a woman and one was about to execute her while the other one was on some sort of the lookout, or maybe he did not want to take part in what obviously was a one man`s job. Or maybe he just preferred watching, that sick bastard.

The woman had her hands tied in front of her with an electric cord, ankles were bound as well. A shovel gave out the place of a shallow grave. This was too planned for Stiles' liking.

"I don't. All I know that you have no right to play the judge, the jury and the executioner, whoever you are, especially on _my_ land."

Peter's speech got better, Stiles noted with some detachment.

If a look could kill, they would already be struggling for their lives.

Stiles had the murderous hunter surrounded. Peter was circling the lookout hunter with his claws out, who in his turn took just one glance at Peter when he came into the clearing and then did not spare him a tilt of the head since, even though he was talking. That worried a little corner in Stiles' mind, that clear _dismissal_ because either they underestimated him or tried to show that they did not fear, both were stupid and ineffective here, by the way. But what really set Stiles on edge is the thought that they might expect that he would do nothing to them, as if they knew each other, or had some sort of a pact. Thank got those thoughts were in the deep far corner, despite Flo trying to push them to the surface.

"I am with the Council," the hunter said decisively as if he held authority and was entitled to do whatever the hell he wanted.

Stiles snorted derisively and let himself drop his vigilance to roll his eyes.

"Liar."

That dude was really really not for he knew everyone who was on the Council - he was definitely not one of them.

Silence had set in the clearing. No one moved.

The hunter holding a girl rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Just fuck off, kid."

Stiles brows flew in exasperation. So his deception did not work and he decided to insult Stiles and commandeer him instead?

Any fear that he might have had evaporated. Stiles turned his palms to face each other and the threatening earth force was now an inch from the hunter’s bare skin.

"I will not repeat myself twice," Peter growled out, showing off a disturbed toothy smile at hunters and Stiles could not help but think once again why he was smiling so much? Which was a strange question for him to ask as it was normal for people to smile, and just because he wasn’t parading his teeth it didn't make someone else strange. Peter was just showing satisfaction on their upcoming inevitable victory.

The hunter one pulled the knife away carelessly letting it dangle in his lax hands from the woman's throat but it did not go far, it was still hovering in the near vicinity of her throat.

The hunter looked bored and completely done with death sentence intruders. And while looking still at Stiles he addressed his partner with, "Call Samuel."

The name was somewhat familiar to Stiles but he could not place it. There was no one on the council with that name. He could not recollect any leaders of the hunting families with that name, at least in the nearby states. But he did not let it show, so instead, he tried to conspicuously sneak a peek at Peter who in his turn had a frozen smile on his face, too suspicious for Stiles’ liking. Stiles prayed for him not to know who the dude was. He pushed the thoughts that Peter might be in cahoots with a group of hunters away.

"You make a move and I will gut you," Peter warned sweetly.

Hunter number two looked at him in bewilderment. "Drop it, Peter," he said with a roll of his eyes, again full of dismissal. Judging by Peter’s growl such behaviour was not appreciated.

Stiles was looking between them in confusion. "Acquainted?"

"No," Peter growled out immediately having no desire to be associated with them.

"But we know same people," the hunter with a knife taunted. "And believe me," he looked straight at Stiles who was watching every hunter’s move with dread, "it's all part of the plan."

And then he drove the knife deep into the woman's throat. Stiles watched the blood flowing and woman choking in horror. He could barely breathe. The threat of magic fell limp onto the ground.

Lashing out, Peter jumped onto the second hunter and tore his throat out having taken advantage of his inattentiveness.

After having brutally gutted the woman, wiped the blade on her shoulder and thrown her to side, the murderous hunter with the knife seized the moment of Stiles' shock, drew a gun from behind him and repeatedly fired at Stiles. Fortunately for him, Peter was just in time to catch the most of it into his torso, although one still grazed Stiles’ shoulder, successfully bringing him out of the stupor.

He once again raised the rocks and placed them in the air around the hunter who just derisively chuckled at him.

"You are a no killer."

Stiles' hands shook. He had only killed six people in his life due to his temper flaring and spark raging, out of control; four of those were somewhat in self-defense - kill or be killed he had no choice - yet he did not count the five hunters he made disappear into the thin air on the night of Jackson’s turning, he did not find out after what happened to them. Sure he felt as if the justice was to be brought on the killer of the woman even though he did not know her.

And yet he froze with indecision. It was not easy however even after the many times you’ve already done it before. It just felt too much like killing in cold blood.

Peter laid plastered on his stomach at his feet, grunting. The hunter smirked and said, "You will be a good trophy," and pointed the gun at Peter, who was struggling to get up, all the while growling, fangs and claws out, vainly trying to protect himself.

Stiles closed his eyes and when he opened them he was no longer in charge.

The other Stiles smiled cruelly at the hunter who furrowed his brows in confusion at the sudden change, at the emptiness of his eyes and the coldness of his face.

 **"He may not be able to kill but I am. Sleep tight,"** he growled out like a serial killer with a creepy smile spread on his face.

The hunter did not even stand a chance. The stones had flown into his skin with supernatural force from all sides; once in a forceful contact with his skin, they started sinking into it, tearing their way through inside, slowly, and then lifted him a few feet off the ground.  A blood-curdling shriek later and the hunter exploded from the inside, sending his parts and belligerent rocks scattered across the forest. The other-Stiles was quicker thought and with a roll of his eyes, he raised invisible shields in front of him and Peter, covering them from the whiplash.

As the silence took over, the other Stiles closed his eyes, took a deep breath in and let a self-satisfied breath out. He, without any doubt, got what he had needed - a breath of fresh air and a new portion of the action.

Peter turned onto his back and looked up at Stiles, his face one of steel.

"Who the hell are you?"


	10. Run Away Like You Always Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special birthday edition early update, as promised.  
> It won't answer your questions though, not really.

"Who the hell are you?" Peter grit through his teeth, wolfsbane bullets in his stomach obviously bothering him.

The other Stiles scowled at him furiously.

**"I do not do slow, Peter, so I advise you to keep up."** His face changed then in a second giving Peter a whiplash, it went from angry and menacing to seductive and openly leering. **"And you want me to _do_ you, right?"**

 Peter barely restricted himself from fully licking his lips, the tongue only peaked out unsurely from behind his teeth.

Flo felt a violent nudge inside his head. Warning number one.

“I, I..” Peter stuttered uncertainly and squinted at the man in front of him.

**"Oh, baby,"** the other Stiles started mockingly with a faux innocence to his face, **"did you not recognise your boo?"** he chuckled at the expression on Peter’s face which was once again steadfastly stubborn and impenetrable. **"Oh well, I just thought it was time for you to meet the best half of the powerful duo. Lo and behold: Stiles"** he pointed at himself, the twirled his finger in the air as if looking for a direction to point at and then pointed at himself, once again, while smirking mischievously, **"and Flo."**

Something cleared in Peter’s face and his eyes fell shut. He must have figured it out then, remembered the case file with the note of his disorder. To Peter, Stiles was just showing his second personality, the protective one, the one who emerged in critically dangerous or even intently murderous situations.

Flo was getting irritated because of the lack of Peter’s response and also gradually getting angry. First of all, he was no fun, boring him with dull inertness. And second of all, – he knew this was going to happen. He had always tried to protect Stiles from this because it always came to this – people looked at him and saw a damaged and wrong sick kid. Flavros spent half of Stiles’ life protecting him from people like Peter, who’d change their attitude because he was a bit different.

The other Stiles squinted his eyes and scrunched his mouth in disgust.

“I’m sorry,” said Peter on the exhale and started spitting blood to the side.

Flo looked at him with distrust. Who knew what he was sorry for? So only out of necessity he raised his hands and guided the bullets embedded in Peter up and out of it. Peter barely held back a scream. The other Stiles smiled in sick satisfaction. Then he stepped over the writhing Peter and walked over to the body of the dead woman. Having found the knife on the ground, he wiped the blade on her shirt from the blood, although the hilt was still messy. From the second still relatively intact hunter he took the bullets with wolfsbane. As he got closer to Peter, he said cheerfully, **“Buckle up,”** and Peter’s wounds started burning, being cleansed from the wolfsbane.

The other Stiles crossed his arms on his chest and started tapping his foot in impatience while Peter was writhing on the ground, bent in half, scrunched into the fetal position, healing. Two minutes past and other Stiles gave out a very loud sigh. And then he repeated it, making it sound more put-upon and bored. Peter had quieted by that time, almost healed up.

While other Stiles was shifting from one foot to another, Peter was trying to get onto his feet. He failed at first, falling back onto the ground under other Stiles’ watchful eye but he managed at the end. He straightened in front of him and just breathed for a minute, much to other Stiles’ dismay, and only some time later started speaking.

“I apologise for my behaviour,” came a humble request. “We started on the wrong foot. My name is Peter. And you are...”

Other-Stiles looked at Peter like he was mad, completely weirded out by his manners. **“Flo,”** he answered, his voice exhuming distrust, but not willing to lose any opportunities he jutted his hip forward and murmured seductively, **“But you can call me anything you want, baby.”**

Flo suddenly felt his insides twist. He could feel the house on his arm burning his skin as if calling to attention.

_“Don’t you dare to hit on him,”_ Stiles could not help himself but to intrude. He saw everything, even from the periphery.

Flo barely held himself from rolling his eyes. **_“You don`t need to be jealous, I know he`s all yours. So don`t worry, it`s all innocent.”_**

He could hear Stiles scoff. _“Your ‘innocent’ sends all the men running._ And _women. Let’s be honest, you are downright creepy when it comes flirting.”_

**_“To pull someone’s hair while pounding them into the nearest door there is no need for romance,”_** he countered cockily.

_“That is why you will not touch him,”_ Stiles hissed.

**_“Don`t be such a spoilsport. We both could use some fun, you know, me and Peter.”_ **

_“You touch him and I will revoke any control you have.”_

At that threat, Flo stopped. He squinted distrustfully at the source of the voice. **_“You wouldn’t,”_** he started unsurely. **_“You are not stable yet. You were shaking just a few minutes ago, you are not ready.”_**

_“Try me,”_ Stiles threatened challengingly.

That shut Flo up. He treasured his moments of control.

 But who knows. He could not be good for too long and abide the rules the boy had set for him. He was a demon after all.

Flo was brought back from his private chat with Stiles by a clearing of a throat. He looked up.

“I want to thank you for saving me,” Peter’s voice was firm and sure, leaving no traces of earlier injuries.

**“You owe me,”** Flo winked at Peter playfully. At those words, Peter bowed his head as if accepting.

The truth was, Peter owed him nothing for he was the one to initially save his life. Well, Stiles’ life, but they were one, where one went the other followed. So, actually, they were even. But if Peter was willing to hand himself over on a plate just like that, so easily and willingly, well then, who was a demon to deny him. Which, officially, made Peter owe him.

**“Now,”** Flo took a step, posing himself right in front of Peter and took his left hand. Peter’s look on their joined hands was blank. **“Why don`t we have a snack? I`m hungry.”** And then he put the finger of his right hand into his mouth and sucked at it, hollowing his cheeks in the process and looking at Peter from his lashes.

Peter’s lips parted, his heart skipped a beat. He focused on Stiles’ mouth but his eyes got quickly distracted by the blood that was covering his whole hand.

His mouth snapped shut, his eyebrows furrowed. He squeezed the hand in his in a painful grip and weakly commanded, “Stop it.”

Despite having his bones in his left hand so close to cracking, the other Stiles was still smiling lasciviously at Peter. He pulled out his clean finger with a pop, leaving a drop of blood on his lips. Eyes still locked with Peter’s, he deliberately trailed his tongue over the lower lip, licking the blood away, wetting them and washing away the red tint.

Peter’s expression on his face did not change, but Flo knew he had his attention. He knew Stiles ‘forbade’ him, but how could he ever resist such a sinful display?

He outstretched his right hand and cupped Peter’s face, keeping the big finger on his lower lip, giving in to the desire to smear some blood on him too.

Peter automatically leant into his palm and closed his eyes, taking comfort in Stiles’ hands.

The other Stiles was tracing his finger from right to left and back Peter’s lip, tempting himself.

Peter looked up from his eyelids, his gaze treacherously falling onto other Stiles’ lips. He started gently extracting himself from the grip the young man had on him by leaning a bit backwards and preparing his foot to do the same, so he could step away and stop it.

But before he could, the other Stiles surged and captured Peter’s mouth in a searing kiss. His hand moved from his cheek into his hair, twining his fingers in it. Peter gasped in surprise as if he really was surprised, which allowed the other Stiles a free pass in. He was ready to deepen the kiss when his body altogether stopped. Peter, sensing something not quite right, froze as well.

Stiles gasped and his heart beat went into an overdrive. He stumbled back with a gasp, his eyes filled with frightened surprise.

Peter’s face filled with remorse and regret once he realised that Stiles was back and had to come back to it in such a position. He took a step forward, opened his mouth, but apologies died on his mouth when Stiles lifted his right hand in front of his face and stared at it in horror and disgust. His eyes then flicked to Peter and got stuck on his bloodied face.

Stiles hastily turned away from him and started trying to wash the blood away from his mouth and a hand at first with his sleeves. He stumbled forward, profoundly creeped out by Flo.

The first thing he did once he had the reins was locking him up, successfully preventing even his thoughts from trickling in and isolating them both from each other.

“Stiles. Stiles, Stiles,” Peter was repeating frantically. Stiles could feel his hands hovering over his arms from behind him as if he wanted to touch him, to hug him, to provide comfort but was too afraid of the reaction.

Stiles barely turned his head to the side addressing Peter curtly, “Fine.”

He was so not fine though.

“Stiles,” Peter tried again. I`m so sorry. I didn’t...I shouldn`t have...He, no, you. But he...I don`t know, Stiles, it was...”

Stiles turned sharply around, facing Peter. With straight back he braced himself.

“What you do to me,” he started anew frantically and shook his head. “You are so special.”

He grabbed Stiles’ hands in his and peered into his face. He saw a tear slide down Stiles’ cheek.

“Freak,” Stiles choked out and turned his head away.

“No. No, no no, no. You`re not, Stiles, I promise you.”

Stiles took a peek at the earnest face consoling him.

"It's alright, it does not change anything." Peter was gently caressing his cheek now because apparently, it was their thing. "I like you anyway." He added in a murmur.

Stiles swore he could faint from such a gesture. He had never met anyone so accepting, especially without prior preparation for the first meeting with 'other Stiles'.

"Just tell me," Peter hesitated at that, "is there anyone else I am to meet?"

Stiles looked in Peter's eyes and shook his head desperately.

"Just the two of you then." Stiles nodded in confirmation and slightly jutted his chin forward, asking for a sign that Peter is still on the board of his crazy train. Peter smiled and closed the gap immediately, gifting Stiles with the gentlest of kisses.

He then pressed his forehead to Stiles' and whispered. "Thank you for sharing with me," and marked his forehead with a ghost of a peck, "but we have to go now. The forest reeks of remains of that hunter."

At that Stiles flinched away from Peter's hold and looked at the gruesome scene. One would not notice anything if he was only skimming over the trees. But if one looks closer, then it's easy to spot a piece of skin there and a piece of torn cloth there. And Stiles did not want to look closer, no way.

With a curse, he turned around and started walking away with Peter in tow.

 

"Mary, darling,” Peter addressed the waitress in the diner they were currently sitting, “and would you mind to bring me a notepad and a pen? I would appreciate it, thank you."

At Stiles' confused gaze Peter hurried to answer. "I believe you have answers. And since you are not going to talk in full sentences anytime soon," he stopped there waiting for Stiles to confirm and once he did Peter continued with, "I decided to assist with this task. I will try my best to answer."

Peter's smile aimed to be reassuring but turned to be unsure at the edges. Peter could not hold Stiles' gaze and turned to the window. That sat in silence.

Two minutes later the notepad appeared in front of Peter along with a pen. He smiled gratefully at the retreating waitress and moved it closer to Stiles.

Stiles did not hurry to open the questioning although he was burning with curiosity.

He did not touch the appliances and kept his hands under the table.

"Why?" He asked.

Peter sighed. "I need to, no, I have to give you this opportunity, I want," he stumbled over the words, unsure - this man was so unlike the Peter who dealt with hunters. "I want you to trust me, it's important for me if we...just ask me."

 

And so Stiles opened the notepad and started writing. He was a coward though, too afraid to hear Peter lie. So he started with a statement. Once he finished he held up the pad and showed it to Peter.

_ "I feel like a nameless dude in white in ‘The Leftovers’. All I need is a cigarette." _

Peter smiled at him. "I've been awake only for a year, and yet I've seen that one. Weird as fuck."

Stiles openly grinned at him, and Peter could not help but return it. Stiles put the pad down then and his pen hovered uncertainly over a new page.

He quickly scribbled a question.

_"Who was she?"_ Fear of the answer kept him laconic. But before showing it to Peter he quickly added, _"Did you know her?"_

Peter slightly nodded to himself as if verifying to himself that he could indeed answer that as if granting himself a permission to be truthful.

"I have no idea who she was. As you might remember I've been out of the game for a while, so I have not acquainted myself with everyone yet. I know about 70% of names in the town, but unfortunately, she did not make that list." He stopped for a bit and added, "The smell of water was overpowering her scent though, so it gives me options. I will find out."

"Siren?" Stiles asked guessing.

Peter smiled reassuringly. "We have two sirens in this town and believe me she was not one of them. I memorise the dangerous ones first."

Stiles was at loss then. None of the water creatures that the girl could be had the power to influence people from afar and call them for help mentally.

_"Why were you the only one to hear her? Thoughts?"_ Styles wrote.

Peter, to Stiles chagrin, looked lost. "I understand now that if she actually screamed then half of the town would be there but still I have no idea why me. Why did she call me however she did that." He furrowed his eyebrows and his face assumed a resemblance of an angry grimace. "But I will find out."

Peter sighed and tried to relax. Stiles though did not let him catch a break.

_ "Who is Samuel?"  _

Peter’s face immediately closed off.

"I am afraid I cannot answer that. But be sure that this matter will be dealt with. There is nothing to worry about."

_“You know him,”_ Stiles wrote accusingly.

"This is Hale's pack business, Stiles. You have nothing to do with it.” And after a beat, “ So, how about a pie?” Peter smiled innocently and took a menu in his hands.

Stiles scrunched his mouth in distaste and ripped the menu away from Peter’s hands. He would not stand deflecting. On a second thought, Stiles' eyes widened and he quickly wrote down a, "He is a Hale, isn't he?"

Peter looked away from the pad, saying nothing.

_ "What the fuck, Peter?" _

Peter only glanced at the pad and then looked out of the window, denying Stiles all the answers.

_ "What is the member of your pack doing with hunters? I thought there were not supposed to be any hunters? Shelter???" _

He slapped the pad on the table, underlined the last word and tapped it urgently. With a disgruntled sigh, Peter read. He looked lost for a minute.

"It was a ...mistake,” he started defending himself unsurely. “That hunter did not know what he was talking about. And if he did it was sure as hell not about...Samuel. He was just messing with us." Peter could not help the growl at the end. "That's what they are trained to do, fill your thoughts with doubt, make them unfocused, make you lose your grip, start questioning your pack, your family. That bastard just picked the name out of the blue. So just forget about it."

_"And yet it worked,"_ Stiles wrote immediately.

Peter just scrunched his nose in disgust. "I'm used to that. They always aim for the closest ones. Hunter's bluff with time is received with only annoyance. Do not take it seriously."

And then it caught up to Stiles. _"Samuel - brother?"_

When Peter hesitated, Stiles just slid the pad closer, persisting, tapping on the paper.

 "Alpha's mate," Peter muttered reluctantly, looking at him askew.

Stiles fell back onto the seat. No way, he thought. Surely it could be nothing and be exactly what Peter said - hunters messing with their heads. But what if.

What if there was a traitor amidst the Hale family and such a close one to the alpha who let the hunters in and pointed in the right for them direction? Because in a haven there should not be any hunters, it was supposed to be safe for anyone who seeks shelter.

People should not be afraid of prosecution, they should live a mundane life, a comfortable one. Not cry on their knees in the forest where their grave is already dug. Something was not right in this town and Stiles could only hope that the problem laid not in anyone from the Hale family.

"I've known you a day. You cannot ask for this kind of trust," he wrote down and then added and once again underlined furiously _"shelter”_.

With a pained expression on his face, he cupped Stiles' hand with both of his and bent to kiss it reverently.

"I know darling," he murmured regretfully.

With Flo shut down all behind his mental walls he could fully feel all his emotions. Something tender was blossoming in his heart. With all his expectations of the behaviour of the left hand, Peter was so different. Maybe that’s how he was, how he dealt with people, perhaps with consideration. His not so typical left hand.

But he had to stay on the track. He had a curse to break and a sheriff to figure out and a familiar to take care of. There was no place for romance. And truth to be told there never was.

Slowly he pulled his hand away denying Peter any reciprocation.

He took the pad and wrote _" you are"_ and then he crossed it out. Then started again _"my life"_ and then crossed it with furious fat lines. With a sigh, he resigned his message to _" I don’t know where to put you in my life"_ instead of ‘there’s no place for you in my life’. He tried to do it gently. And added _"sorry"._

He reluctantly nudged the pad across the table instead of his usual showing and raising it in the air. Peter’s face, expressionless, shut down, just blinked at his scribbles. He then looked at Stiles, so much pain in his blue eyes, desperation suddenly breaking out and blossoming on his face. He turned his palm up as if inviting, asking to give him the hand, asking for the reassurance that it did not mean that they could not be anything together.

Stiles just shook his head. He crossed his arms on his chest and put his arms under the armpits hiding any chance of any possible conciliation.

"Don’t do this to me," Peter whispered. “Not when I’ve just met you, found you.”

Stiles tilted his head down and closed his eyes, trying to shut out Peter’s frantic voice. This was his decision. They did not know each other too long to be, to feel anything anyway. Stiles mentally nodded to himself, reassuring.

Flo was right to some extent. He could not afford this..this..whatever this was or could be.

When he opened his eyes, Peter was already gone.

Stiles sighed deeply and slumped in his seat. He covered his face with hands and hung his head, desperately willing to disappear or to teleport himself to his hotel room, to Jackson.

“I hear you are new here,” Stiles was jolted from his thoughts and misery by a voice, which belonged to a young strawberry blond woman now sitting in front of him.

She was smiling sweetly at him while Stiles was greeting her with a confusion written all over his face.

“New, new, new.” She singsonged. “And yet you caught an eye of our notorious left hand.”

Her tone had a sharp edge at the end of the sentence and Stiles could not understand what caused it.

“Anyway,” she continued sweetly. “You are lucky.”

Stiles did not get it. Lucky with Peter?

“Peter?”

Lydia rummaged in her little red purse and pulled out a red lipstick.

“Oh, honey,” she intensified the colour on her lips, put the stick back into her purse, readjusted her hair and assumed a beautiful position, facing the door.

“What I mean is that it`s your first day in town and you get a chance to spectate the rare fun in here.”

Just a few seconds later, four men burst through the door, guns blazing.

“Nobody moves,” the leader yelled and fired at the ceiling.


	11. It is Happening Again

In a blink of an eye, the man with the gun was behind the counter, pointing with his beloved weapon at the cashier to join the rest of the guests at the tables. The girl, young and blond, Erica said her nametag, with her eyes wide as saucers and hands wobbling up in the air, walked to the others, head bowed.

The waitresses and workers of the kitchen were shooed out from the depths of the dinner and herded with the guests – all were gathered in one place, waiting.

The hunter guarding the front door pulled out a small bag, opened it and poured out some kind of – was that sand? He lined the door and put it back into his pocket. Stiles could feel there was mountain ash in it – to keep all the supernaturals trapped in, but what remained a mystery to him were two questions: what were other substances mixed in the mountain ash and how the hell did he even manage that shit to work? And the second one: why the door but not the windows?

Never think your enemy is dumb - they must’ve placed the mix on the windowsills outside then. And inside is just a demonstration.

Stiles felt like the takeover was going too quiet. His thought was formed just too early.

The man at the first table wolfed out and tried to jump the hunters but was immediately shot in the stomach and fell back onto the leather couch. A few people cried out in shock, one ran to help, any others who twitched to come over were warned off by the guns pointed.

Anyone else who even though to play the hero sat unmovingly and waited for the demands.

Everyone was scared and confused – not every day a group of what seemed to be hunters – again, goddamit, - came into the diner armed to the teeth, especially in a supernatural haven. Stiles was starting to doubt this town was even what it was considered to be.

Everyone sat quietly while the hunters were spreading around the establishment.

The only person who stood out was the girl in front of Stiles. She just sat there, unperturbed, a small smile playing on her lips. Stiles suspected she was one of them – the insider. She looked as unstable as the men who barged into the diner full of supernatural creatures with a threat.

Stiles somehow doubted that everything would end peacefully and easily.

“Your peaceful life in here,” started the man who seemed to be in charge, the one who fired at the beginning, “has come to an end. This is the first wave. By the end of the last one, this town will turn to ashes, just like Thornville.”

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and conspicuously looked at those who gasped in horror. So someone here knew what the hell was that, he supposed, town.

“Every single one of you,” the man continued with a sneer, “is an abomination. And our mission is to exterminate every single one of you, like some pests that you are.”

Stiles heard subtle growls coming from around the dinner.

“More and more hunters are invading this land as we speak. Your protector has failed you, your treasured system and all those intricate protocols fell apart. Oh and by the way,” a disturbing sadistic smile appeared on the man’s face, “the borders have been rewired – anyone will be able to come in, but no one will be able to come out. You are _trapped_. Well, those of you who will be left alive. We will hunt everyone down like it’s the best safari in our lives.”

People were angry now. Stiles could see the belligerent scowls forming on people’s faces, the fear slowly dripping out of them. Even the cashier, Erica, had a mighty scowl on.

“But, before we shoot you all down, one by one, one nameless monster after the other,” the man creepily continued, “I would like to make you a deal.”

No one seemed happy or even open to an offer, yet – listening.

“I am looking for a young man. Give him to me and I will set you all free, so you could run to your dens, say goodbye before you die a horrible merciless death.”

Some people perked up at that – of course, they all must’ve believed they had a chance to fight them with a police force and a Hale pack on their side.

“Evander Crane.”

Stiles closed his eyes – because of course, fate was fucking cruel to him today, and of course, they were looking for him. He closed his eyes but did not let the audible sigh he so desperately wanted to out – he was not going to give himself out so soon. He even tried to relax, not to look so tense and fucking _obvious_.

The red head in front of his surreptitiously stole a glance at him, as if she knew it was him they were looking for, but otherwise, she did not let it show that she suspected anything.

The hunters were watching everyone’s reaction but all they got was confusion on everyone’s faces.

The girl, Erica, shakily raised her hand.

“Yes?” the hunter’s eyed her mockingly. “Darling, do you have anything to share with me? Want a golden ticket out?”

Everyone tensed at the hint of only one person being able to get out alive.

“I’m sorry, err, mister, but there is no Evander Crane in this town,” the hunter stepped closer to her with a shotgun raised and she hurriedly continued, “you see, this is the most popular diner, and I’ve worked here for a long time, so basically I know everyone here, in this town. And, I, I would’ve remembered someone named Evander.”

The hunter rolled his eyes and said, “So what, there was no one new around here?”

Her eyes involuntary slid over to him, to Stiles, but then snapped back to the hunter. Unfortunately, the hunter saw that, as well as the rest of his goons, and of course the other hostages.

Everyone was staring at Stiles now.

“Well, well, well,” the hunter drawled, lazily walking over to Stiles’ table, “here I’ve been looking for you, threatening everyone while you sat quietly like a coward. Good thing the monsters here only look out for themselves.”

Several other growls were immediately silenced. Yet all Stiles could focus on was the girl in front of him – he did not dare to look up, to acknowledge that he was being addressed, that he was uncovered.

He hadn’t heard that name for a decade.

He felt a gun being pressed to the side of his head. The red head was greedily taking in every detail of the show in front of her.

“I am talking to you,” the men sing-songed and nudged him with a gun.

Stiles kept silent.

What was he supposed to do? He could not talk his way out of it. He could show his fake id of David Underwood but would that really work? And before he would be able to fish out his wallet he would be shot down. He did not want to call for Flo – although he did mentally reach out, and he was nowhere nearly in close vicinity. He could protect himself with some magic but other people could get hurt. But what else could he do, what else could he do?

The answer was taken away from him when the redhead spoke, having chosen one of the variants.

“I’m sorry,” she said sweetly, full of confidence. “My name is Lydia and my friend here is not who you are looking for.”

“Oh really?” She had hunter’s full undivided unpleasant attention.

“You see, David here,” she stood up and the gun was immediately pointed at her. She just raised her head, walked over to Stiles and reached into his pocket where his wallet was. While she was taking it out, Stiles sneaked a glance at her and looked at her imploringly, trying to understand what this stranger was trying to do and how the hell she knew who he was in the first place.

When she finally took it out, she walked back to her seat and sat down gracefully. She opened his wallet and took out the id card. When she showed it to the hunter, he squinted at it suspiciously.

“So, David here is a friend of mine. He has agoraphobia so it is only a second time in five years he had left his apartment on the edge of the city. That is why Erica must’ve assumed he was new here. And by the way, you are scaring him very much, he might have a panic attack.”

The hunter slowly took an id card and turned it in his free hand. Then he looked at Stiles, who tried to look as close to a panic attack as possible as if scared shitless.

The hunter growled out a profanity.

“Can anyone confirm her words?” he looked around, gun pointed up.

People were lost, eyes wandering from Stiles to the hunter and back. The murmurs of “I guess”, “Probably”, “It could be” were going from everywhere. Stiles could barely believe his luck.

And then, “Well if there is no Evander here, I have to start entertaining myself somehow.” And then he promptly shot a woman sitting closest to him in the head.

And then the panic and screaming started.

The time for heroes came.

 People finally found some courage to stand up for themselves and their town.

All hell broke loose.

And Stiles just had to be a part of that. He was in luck but surely it would not last long.

Two men rushed the man blocking the door, one woman attacked the leader, the other one jumped the closest to her hunter; the fourth one hunter, luckily, was probably guarding the back door – so out of sight. For now.

The leader easily fought off the woman so it was time for Stiles to step in. He conjured a small ball of electricity in his palm and as soon as the hunter threw off the woman he threw the ball right into him.

The man seized, stumbled back, and fired. The bullet hit someone. That someone screamed.

The man blocking the door was down - the man who had rushed him had him pinned down, so everyone tried to go through the door but to no avail. They kept banging at the barrier, not even at the door, while it was zapping them, with more and more electricity at every try.

“We’re trapped,” some woman gasped. “Oh my God, we need to get out! Now!”

The other one was already choking on air, “Can anyone…can anyone…break…out…need.”

Erica was not blocking the door but stood to the side. She looked at the ash, and then at Stiles, from whose hands a ball of light had just flown out. She took a deep confident breath in and said, “You are a magic user.”

All the pounding on the barrier and panic ceased. Everyone turned to look at Stiles. He met their stares with a huff. Because, of course. Of course, he was the only magic user there.

“Can you take it down?” Erica pointed at the door and Stiles sighed a, “Move” and walked over to the door. The path in front of him was cleared. He closed his eyes, raised his hand to the barrier, but not too close, just shy of touching it, but not, and concentrated, tried to feel it out.

He had never seen or felt anything like that. It was new and powerful and completely and impossibly weird. He tried to break but the mix did not want to obey him and directed a powerful zap right into his spark.

He jerked away from the door and uttered an angry and irritated, “Fuck!”

“Did it work? Did it work? Did it?” rushed out of the choking woman.

“Does it look like it worked?”  Lydia drawled from behind him, her arms poised on her hips, position provoking and demanding.

Stiles’ sight refocused when he saw the leader twitch – he was regaining consciousness.

So he got back to work. He felt the mix, then took a breath in, and demanded to be let through. He believed that that ash, despite whoever made it, would let the hostages through.

His spark was buzzing, his head hurt – but the ash moved an inch. It all he needed though.

The problem was - that inch he was holding. Once he stopped trying he felt that it would seal the diner once again.

“Go,” his command sounded so desperate. And thankfully – no one hesitated. The moment everyone was out he stopped fighting the ash and relaxed, and almost choked on the rush. He turned around – and there she was, Lydia, head cocked to the side, a small smirk on her face.

“Why,” _didn’t you?_ He wanted to ask and made a helpless gesture towards the door.

“You’re here,” was the simple answer.

Stiles could barely believe that shit. However, his concentration was taken away at the sight to his right – a hunter reaching for his gun – no one was holding him anymore.

Stiles immediately fired another ball of electricity into the second hunter, making him fall onto his ass.

He took a quick glance at the redhead and saw her eyes momentarily glazed over. Confusion washed over him but immediately cleared out once he focused on her aura – it was of a banshee ready to scream. And that she did.

Her scream was strong and powerful; luckily, Stiles had protection runed into his skin so he was the only one amongst the present not trying to claw his ears out.

He decided to seize the moment and rushed to the back door. He immobilised the fourth hunter swiftly and easily. Once he knocked him out, the screaming had ceased.

What he did not expect though, that once he came back to the main area, the leader had a knife pressed to Lydia’s throat. What was with those hunters and their knives and pressing them to women’s throats?

Stiles froze in his spot, surprised at their speed and sneakiness – the leader was totally knocked out just a second ago, - and that is why he did not notice that the second hunter was not on the floor anymore either. He noticed only when a gun was pressed to the back of his head.

Stiles deeply sighed and cursed inwardly. He once again was open to options.

Stiles could hear the sirens outside on the street as did hunters. The leader led the half unresponsive girl to the window and having parted the curtains showed them Lydia with a gun to her head – a clear warning: do not come in, hostages will die if you do. Then he beaconed the second hunter who performed the same show.

Through the window Stiles could see four police cars as well as two ambulances; he also recognised a few victims that had just escaped, saw a dozen of deputies, a Sheriff and other people he did not know. Peter was there as well, staring into Stiles’ eyes, posture tense, fists balled up. There were a threat and a promise in those eyes, to hunters and Stiles respectively.

Stiles was ripped away from the window then and thrown to the floor. He did not let out a sound. The second hunter was hovering over him to the side.

The leader hunter put Lydia on her weakened knees in front of him, knife pressed to her beautiful pale throat. The hunter’s eyes were burning with hatred and of course directed at Stiles.

The diner was quiet. Only four people were currently conscious and breathing.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” the hunter sneered. “You are a failed experiment of the Crane family, aren’t you?”

Stiles directed a hateful sneer at him – he was no experiment, he was a human, a living, breathing person, not some fucking project.

“Oh, you are, it’s you, you are Evander Crane,” the hunter’s eyes lit up in sick fascination. “You are the biggest success and the biggest failure of our family.”

The air froze in Stiles’ lungs. _There are more of them,_ was all he could think. As well as – _no, please, no; don’t let them take me away again._

Still no sign of Flo.

“Yes, that’s right, _boy_. Gerome Crane was my brother. But you,” he pointed at Stiles with a free bloodied finger, “are certainly _not_ my nephew.”

Stiles was a no coward. He was raised to be brave, which, most of the times, went hand in hand with recklessness.

“Blessing,” he sneered in disgust.

The leader’s grip tightened on the hilt of the knife and he glanced at his accomplice. Immediately Stiles felt a dull punch to his ribs and then right under.

He coughed severely but took reign of his breathing and looked back at the leader.

The leader's eyes shone and he gave a mirthless hard laugh. “They trained you good, didn’t they? A perfect little _brave_ soldier.”

Stiles flinched as if he was hit again.

“You know, when we heard of the hunter’s uprising, we thought – okay, that could be fun. But then we heard you would be here – and it was like a sign from above as if a God himself was guiding us here and blessing us to kill.”

Stiles wondered how such a moral dick lived that long.

Outside he heard a howl and froze – that was Jackson. Just a few meters away was Jackson. Stiles searched for their bond and cursed inwardly for it was shut down – he could not even remember when he had done that. He felt that Jackson was on the verge of the breakdown – one so powerful Stiles could feel his bones shiver and a deep need to run, to be there for him.

But he couldn’t.

So he had to help from afar, as always.

Struggling through the veil of shame, calming waves were sent along the bond. When that was not enough, the binding and restricting and distracting followed.

Stiles was snapped out from the bond by the continuation of the evil monologue.

“Well, well, well – look who with us again,” it looked like Lydia was once again fully aware of everything going on around her, although she had lost the attitude and had her gaze focused on the window – from where the howl came.

Such a desperate face of a woman Stiles would never be able to confuse.

Jackson chose well.

Stiles flinched as the leader pulled Lydia by her hair and made her look at Stiles.

“Look at my hostage when I am talking,” he bellowed.

Her eyes met Stiles’. There was something wrong with them.

“That’s better.” His fist gripped the redhead’s hair and she winced.

“You are so silent.” Stiles’ eyes snapped to hunter’s who was looking somewhat manically at him. “I remember when you were a child. You were a little chatterbox – you talked and talked and talked and no one could make you stop. No one thought it was adorable.” He added with a sneer. “I guess they’d finally beat that out of you.”

Stiles twitched forward but immediately felt a weight of the gun near his temple and balled up his fists trying to keep himself in control.

“But I guess it was not enough though. You are living, breathing,” he sighed faux-sadly, “I guess it needs to be rectified.”

Stiles squinted at him in suspicion.

“And the best way to execute my revenge,” he flipped the knife with a single motion and hit Lydia’s head with its hilt and let her go. Stiles could not trace her fall without wincing. “Is through subjecting you to the same sentence my brother suffered.”

The hunter walked over to the nearest wall, punctured his palm with a blade, dipped his fingers in blood and started drawing some intricate symbol.

Stiles froze, watching him doing it in morbid fascination.

It was a rune for fire – but it was drastically modified. Stiles’ heart stuttered. Not the fire, he would not survive the fire again.

He clenched his fists.

It was now or never.

Stiles drew back and fired a ball of electricity at the hunter – he dodged. It seemed that he had learned from his mistakes. Luckily, it was not all Stiles had in his arsenal. He spotted a small station with appliances – just as a hunter got ready to jump him, seven forks and three knives wedged themselves into his body. He fell down, twitching.

Stiles then stood up and meant to run up to the leader to stop him – but once he looked up the job was done, the picture complete. The hunter graced him with an evil smirk and all the while holding Stiles’ intimidated stare, pressed his bloodied palm to the rune.

And then the fire lined every wall and started slowly creeping inwards.

“You murdered my brother with fire,” the leader of none growled out through the smoke, “And now it is the time I avenge him.”

Stiles knew, right then and there, that he was staring in the face of death itself – and it was running at him to collect.

Stiles’ pulse raced, every muscle in his body tensed, his hands got cold; he could barely focus on the threat before him through his sheer panic.

The training kicked in though.

The hunter swiped with a knife at him – why couldn’t he just shoot him with a gun? That sick bastard, probably wanted to leave him to burn to death, while grasping at the last straws of life, helpless, - and Stiles ducked, but not unscathed.

 And then again and again and again. No magic helped him – his supplies were dangerously low and he had a feeling he would need them soon.

Stiles had to use everything around him – chairs, cloth, the layout. It was harder and harder to see though and simply breathe.

Stiles could feel bruises colouring his torso and cuts burning in his arms – and then, a potent punch to the face, the hunter fell back, and Stiles could not see him under the smoke.

He looked around then and immediately found a coughing Lydia on the floor. He ran up to her and helped her get up. He knew he was supposed to stay on the floor – but it was time to get out.

“We need to…” she coughed severely, “get out of here.” Stiles nodded and kept her weight. “Can you open the…” She once again was a victim of a series of harsh coughs. He started leading her to the door when a hand gripped his ankle and pulled.

Stiles immediately lost his grip on Lydia and went down, crashing onto the floor heavily. When he turned over he could see the bloodied face of the grinning hunter.

“You’re not going anywhere, boy.”

Stiles tried to crawl away from his grip but to no avail.

A decision had to be made.

This was his fight. A banshee did not have to suffer.

He pressed his hand to the floor with intent and already knowing the workings of the mix created a small gap.

“Run,” he commanded.

Lydia was right there, right before the door – and yet she hesitated. Stiles could barely see but the emotion on her face stood out clearly in the dark.

She looked back through the door, and then back at Stiles. “No!” she screamed petulantly, notes of hysterics in her voice.

Stiles was not getting out of here.

He sent the last magic fuel he had in a form of a small swirl of the wind which knocked Lydia of her feet and sent her flying through the door ajar – not far though, but just enough for Stiles not to hold the spell for the mix any longer.

The door bounced back, closing. They were sealed in once again.

He relaxed for a second – and then immediately tensed and let out a painful scream – the hunter had plunged a knife in his calf and was pressing on it as if digging a hole in a sandbox. Stiles screamed, and coughed, and choked and tried to fight off the hunter with his good leg. He finally did and the hunter got off his leg alongside with the knife.

Stiles turned on his back and as he opened his eyes – the hunter was on top of him, aiming at his throat. With a help of sheer luck and a bit of training, Stiles’ hands were in time to block him and grip the knife as well, stopping it from cutting his throat, just inches away. It was a question of strength now.

“I can’t wait till your dead. She will be so glad her husband has been avenged. Fucking abomination. Pay for your sins.”

Stiles did not hear a thing though. He tried to tune out the fire roaring in his ears. Only a small patch of floor was left unscathed and they were currently in the middle of it.

Stiles felt too hot. The fire was too close for comfort. He involuntary turned his head to the side, just an inch, but it was enough to come face to face with fire. His hands, his cold clammy hands trembled, his grip on the knife wavered. He was losing.

He was going to burn, alive. Stiles felt tears forming, it was hard to breathe. He a brave scared boy once again.

Stiles looked at the face hovering above him and for a second – just a second, he saw a face of his father looking down at him, the face of the cruel man who had nothing but violence in him.

He screamed out, the bits and scraps of magic trickled into his hands and then into the hilt – it burned the hunters hands, distracting him. He yelled out, loosened his grip and from the pressure imbalance the knife drove itself into the tender skin of the throat – a few seconds and a gallon of blood later – and the leader was dead.

Stiles pushed the hunter off of himself and realised that there was not much left of the building – patches of the ceiling were already collapsing and the body of the hunter was the only thing protecting him from the debris. He crouched and tried to protect his head – unsuccessfully, but his throat was too raw to scream.

He looked around and all he could see were flames. The red waves were licking their way to him and Stiles froze, finally fully facing the reality. His heart was beating fast, his was head dizzy, his lungs filled with smoke – all the crucial reminders of _that_ night. If he could choke any more the panic attack would set in. Or maybe it was already in him, he did not know. He might not have even noticed yet.

All he knew that it was the end.

It was happening again. But this time he would die too.

He would be finally the one to die. It was his rightful punishment. The darkness was enveloping him, burning red at the edges.

_ 11 Years Ago _

_A sob tore its way out from Stiles’ throat with a violent cough intermixed. He was terrified out of his mind, tasting blood in his mouth and seeing it dripping down on the cold concrete floor. He could barely distinguish his father standing before him through a watery veil. His knees throbbed, his hands, bound behind his back, hurt. He felt like an animal in a slaughterhouse, ready to be executed and even with all his magic it felt like there was nothing he could do before the threat of his father._

_He was his family, and he loved him despite all his misgivings, despite the treatment he received, despite the cold attitude – because deep down he believed that one should love and forgive one’s family in spite of everything they might’ve done to you._

_His father wouldn’t kill him, would he? He was his son, the love for him, inbuilt, should not let him, should not…_

_“I have given you everything!” boomed his father’s voice, tearing him out from his merciful thoughts. “And you decided to stain the name of Crane!”_

_A whip tore through the stifling air of the basement and landed onto his collarbone, successfully tearing a blood-curdling scream from Stiles’ throat as well as blood from his skin._

_“You brought shame to this family!” Another crack of the whip and another disappointed sigh from his mother who stood in the corner, just a few steps beside the head of the family._

_“We closed our eyes on your weakness and gave you such a gift – a gift of a demon in your body – so that it could do all the necessary work. And what did you do with our gift, boy?” The father rushed to him and grabbed the corners of his shredded t-shirt in tight fists. His red angry face was right in from of him, so full of hate and disgust._

_“You put your needs and desires before your family’s.” He shook the body of the boy. “You selfish bastard! You traitor!”_

_And then he led his right hand back and brought its fist onto boy’s face._

_Stiles did not know how much more he could take. His father had never been so extreme._

_“When we took you in we believed we could raise you right so that you could serve our purposes and cleanse this world from the evil creatures walking this earth. A perfect weapon. But you,” he maliciously growled, “you proved to be a son of that whore who bared you and have sympathy to those abominations!”_

_It felt like static filled Stiles’ head. His gaze flicked to his mother’s. He didn’t, he didn’t just say, he couldn’t have just said, but he said…_

_“Don’t look at me, Evander,” she spat. “I thought I could’ve raised you as my own flesh and blood, but there’s always been something in you that I could not stand.”_

_The air refused to come into his lungs and not because of the inflicted wounds. They couldn't, they did not imply…_

_“Your mother was a powerful woman,” she chuckled spitefully, “that’s why we chose her. But we could not even imagine that she would bear such a wimp of a child like you.”_

_His gaze snapped to his father’s when he joined the woman’s chuckle with a dark one._

_“How could anyone love such a bastard like you? You are nothing. A son of parents who wanted nothing to do with you, did not even fight for you. Even with a demon inside of you – you are nothing!”_

_Stiles’ thoughts were void. His parents did not love him because, because – they were not his parents? They, they…_

_“I regret the day we stole you from your mother. Instead of stopping on her, we should’ve just killed you both and cleansed this world of such abominations!”_

_He was not their son._

_They killed his real mother._

_A mother, who might’ve been just like him, magical. A mother who would’ve loved him. A mother, his mother, a true mother. They took her away from him and made his life a true_ hell _._

_He could see it now. The veil of excuses he had made for his so called parents lifted and he could see, truly see how miserable his life had been. For 12 years they had tortured him, beat him, humiliated him – abused him. And most of all – they did not love him even a bit, no matter how much he tried to earn their affections._

_A sigh left him – his eyes had finally opened and he finally saw them in a new light. His eyes bore into his father retreating back._

_Breathe in and out._

_He slowly blinked, once, twice, as if in trance. His father stood in front of him, the gun in his hand, pointed at him. Tranquillity enveloped him as his eyes wandered from the gun to his father and back to the gun._

_He looked and looked, eyes boring into the weapon._

_Suddenly, the father hissed and dropped the burning hot gun and stared in miserable pain at his palm. “You,” was all he was quick enough to growl out when flame suddenly hungrily started licking the walls of the basement, making the adults scream out in surprise and terror._

_The ropes binding Stile’s hands burned to ashes, the skin of his hands was untouched though. On the contrary, the flames licking his wrists seemed to lessen the pain._

_He stood up and looked up at his father, his eyes blank._

_“You son of a,” were his final words before the fire jumped him and surrounded him in its unforgiving embrace. His wail was joined by the woman’s who was running around her husband._

_Stiles was going up the stairs then, through the hallway, then the living room, then the main door. When he stepped onto the street and looked around, the house had already caught fire fully, the fire had spread and was destroying everything on its way._

_Stiles stood in front of the house on fire in some kind of numb stupor._

_He had just burned his childhood house, his parents – who were not his parents. He had just burned two people alive. He was 12 years old, he was just a little boy and he did, he did that, he was a…_

**_“Good boy,”_ ** _he heard a self-satisfied whisper of a demon in his head._

_That snapped him back into the reality. He fell to his knees and screamed._

_“No, no,” he started sobbing uncontrollably, covering his mouth with both his hands, trying to reign in the horror.  No control, he had no control over his magic, over himself. He was 12, an orphan and a murderer._

_“I should’ve died there too, it should’ve been me, I did… what, no… how could I, they did not deserve, they, they…”_

**_“Shhhh,”_ ** _tried to sound comforting the voice. **“It`s alright. You did everything right.”**_

_But Stiles was horrified of himself. Children did not do that to his parents/not parents._

_Two months later, he committed himself to a psychiatric institution._

_ Now _

Flo looked around and could not help a vicious coughing fit.

He could not believe the boy had let himself be in such a position again.

**“It’s time to get out now,”** he croaked. **“Okay, spark, let’s see what you’ve got.”**

He concentrated on the warm feeling inside of Stiles’ body and traced it to the centre of the heart – it was going haywire, rapidly shifting in one place, so fast, as if a Flash in a hamster wheel. He tried to stretch his mental hands to it, to pacify it, to ask to work together, but as he neared it glowed brightly – and kicked him the fuck out.

**“Come on!”** Flo growled out enraged. **“We are in this together. If you don’t pull us out of here,”** he coughed in a quick painful succession but strode on, **“then we will all die, do you hear me? I will die, and Stiles will _die_ , and you, my fucking beloved spark, will die as well! And what will you be without him – just a wandering energy that has lost its one true…”** he bent over and coughed, spitting blood in the process. **“I know you don’t like me and would rather see me dead, but we are a package deal darling. So stop fucking around and fucking…”** the part of the ceiling fell down on the other Stiles and he was not in time to dodge it all. Once he pulled it off of himself he checked the spark – still messy and lost and so fucking useless.

**“What about Jackson? Have you thought about him?”** The energy did not respond. The other Stiles growled out, furious, **“He is ours! What would he do without us? He is ours and we are his. And you are going to leave him just like that? Do you care at all?”**

His hands jumped to his throat then, scratching it, willing everything and anything to alleviate the pain.

**“Mother fucker! Fuck! Fuck!”** he yelled, his voice breaking, wheezing, fist punching the floor. He hung his head and shook it, not willing to give up.

**“Maybe you don’t know what to do? Well let me tell you,”** he sneered and stood up, **“what counterpoints fire? Right, my dear, water.”** He, on shaky legs, looked around, trying to spot the nearest sink. **“I hope it is still not pouting over that minor incident while training because if it does not help us now, we will never find out how to…”**

He made a step towards what he thought was a kitchen but it was too late then.

A bad feeling crept in, warning him just a second before.

The building exploded.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge-ass chapter.Isn't it lovely?  
> Next POV will certainly not be Stiles'. Or Flo's.  
> Whose thoughts would you like to hear? Who would you like to see shedding light on what is going on?
> 
> Hope you are satisfied with the fate of the Crane family.


	12. The Waiting Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the chapter is finally here! Sorry it took so long, had to graduate and shit. And this chapter was not very easy to write I have to say.   
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Jackson was alone. Even before he opened his eyes, even before attuned his hearing, even before reached for his bond – at that second when he had just woken up when the concepts of where and when and who he was, were too far to comprehend – he knew that Stiles was not there with him.

Jackson flinched, as if he, just for a second, was torn to jump out of the bed and run looking for Stiles, but decided to stay put.

They were friends, family, pack. And yet, once again.

Jackson got to his feet and went to the bathroom, leaving the thoughts he considered pathetic to mope alone in bed.

Coming back to this town was the last thing he wanted. There was nothing left for him here – no family, no home, and surely not a girlfriend. He had new ones – one person gave him all that he lacked. Well, except the girlfriend part obviously. But he was over Lydia, so nothing there to get over with still. He cannot claim to have loved her, he was too young to know what that feeling was. And she certainly did not love him – she left him, she abandoned him, she chased him away and took away the last ray of hope.

In some way, she broke him. She broke him, in cahoots with his parents, she threw him the rope and said to find a good ceiling elsewhere.

So he took everything he had and left. Travelled, gambled; got drunk and beaten; won and lost. And got into a huge fucking debt. And then he lost himself for a second time. He had nothing – no money, no friends, no place to live. He did not even recognise himself in the mirror for the longest of times.

And then the SUV rode into his alley. Men with guns stepped out, talking about perfect bait, just grabbed him and…

Jackson softly pressed his forehead against the wall and then slowly patted his head with it, chasing the thoughts away. He could be such a drama, he swore he picked it up from Stiles. The past had to stay in the past.  No sense in reliving it.

He pulled his laptop from the bag and sat on the bed.

No internet connection.

He swore inaudibly.

Pants, shirt, shoes – and he`s off to the reception. While walking down the hallway he established that besides him there were six more people in the hotel and three of them were obviously staff from the pantry banging in the kitchen. Just a little training for his senses. Stiles always said he had to be aware of his surroundings. Because you can never know what they are planning but what you can be is ready.

Some paranoid bullshit that Stiles fed him from time to time. He did it anyway.

The desk was empty. He rang the bell once. He could hear the woman in the back room fumble with a coffee maker. She pressed the button, adjusted her dress and hurried to meet the guest.

The stone face of the guest was met with a perfect white smile and bright eyes of the receptionist.

“Good morning, Mr Whittemore. I hope you are not leaving us?” Jackson just continued looking at her. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Wi-fi,” he said in a measured bored tone.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, of course.”

She took a small card from the shelf. And while still holding, off she went, in a thick high-pitched southern Alabama accent, “You are David Whittemore’s son, right? Didn’t you run away when you were 18? Oh, I remember how everyone`s been looking for you, and you father was so mad, he fined people with the biggest of fines! I was so afraid to drive, ‘cause you know, I’m prone to speeding sometimes, I just don’t know how it happens, it just does, I am behind the wheel and just whooooops! And the speedometer is going wild and then there’s an officer after me. Well, if it is a Hale Deputy  then I don’t mind him even arresting me, anything for him, anytime, have you seen that man….” She rested her elbows on the desk and was waving her hands around, describing some of this and that.

Jackson furrowed his brows a little, finding it hard to keep his neutral expressionless face. This woman in her thirties reminded him somewhat of Stiles – loud and annoying. Except, Stiles he could tolerate, he owed him at least that but her? Oh, hell no.

“…and I just love listening to his songs. I sing along, and it’s like he hears and we sing together and it feels like we are so perfect together, the perfect duet, and omg but you heard him too, right? Heard any of Enrique`s songs?”

“I`m a die-hard fan,” Jackson deadpanned.

“I would`ve taken his last name if it wasn’t for my husband,” she giggled in the highest pitch Jackson ever heard. “Can you imagine it, Valencia Iglesias? It has a ring to it, don`t you think? Oh, how I wish…”

Jackson looked at the card in her hand and thought about how much patience was there in him not to rip it from her hand with his claws. He clenched his fists.

He looked her straight in the eyes and flashed his gold eyes. She stuttered for second but pressed on her speech accelerator once again.

“Oh my, boy, you are a werewolf!” And Jackson did not know, what a miracle that she had told him. He barely restrained himself from breaking his emotionless façade with the epic eye-roll. “Do your parents know? I have to call Martha! And David! Their little boy is finally home and gay and a werewolf! But Lydia, what about…”

“Excuse me,” Jackson interrupted quite loudly. “But I would like that card and some confidentiality here? I do not see how you are in any right to talk to my parents for me and tell them shit you know nothing about.”

The woman stilled and had her mouth wide open in shock. Fortunately, her hands stopped in one place too so he plucked the card from her hand.

“I have a business I have to attend to. Thank you and goodbye.”

He turned around and left for his room. Stiles would be howling in laughter if he saw how Jackson kept his face and voice level throughout the how conversation. That thought brought a small smile to his face.

In the room, he punched in the password and was greeted with a wonder of the Internet.

The first thing he searched for was accidents involving hunters in Beacon Hills. What he found though made him stop for a minute and think about whether he was dumb or something. Because of course the town was crawling with supernaturals, and of course it was a sanctuary with such a moving-in rate, and of course Talia Hale was the one running it, of course, of fucking course. Jackson felt like banging his head against the table, but, luckily, there was no table.

He searched some more and found an official site of the sanctuary, promising help and shelter to all who needed it in return for becoming a productive and a peaceful member of the community Talia Hale had built. To do that they had to petition for the place in the Mecca first, then undergo a screening process first by the sheriff’s department then by the alpha herself and only then be granted a probation period with a guaranteed place to live – a hotel or a house of their choosing and budget. There was a separate protocol for those who had nothing on or with them and needed a shelter immediately, and then another protocol for those who were persecuted by hunters and another if wanted by the Council, and then yet another one if actually guilty.

Jackson skipped them all and went straight to the management. Stanford and Talia Hale, he knew who and what already. Then he saw a separate page dedicated to their children. Laura was first – lawyer, working with David Whittemore. Derek – a deputy with the Sheriff’s department, working under Sheriff John Stilinski. Cora – the one who was in his grade and who he actually knew, unfortunately, she gave him the creeps – head of Beacon Hills Sanctuary Supernatural Prison alongside with Chris Argent. Jackson was not surprised where she ended up – he looked at the picture of the prison, which was actually, as it turned out, an Eichen House, and thought that the place of her work was well-matched to her. And the last one – Holly Hale, fresh out of High School, and a new wildlife Ranger.

So basically, all their family was involved in the most focal points of the town’s life. Smart.

Jackson was about to google his father, just out of curiosity, when he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He exhaled sharply and hunched over, letting the laptop fall off his lap. Once the pain subsided, his vision cleared a bit, he inhaled a lungful of air and staggered to the door. Something was wrong. He had to be there then.

All Jackson could hear was the pounding of his heart. He ran as fast as he could through the small patch of the preserve separating the hotel from the town centre where his bond to Stiles was beaconing him like mad. With every step he took, he grew more and more worried. The panic was settling in his limb making stumble over the roots. Something was wrong, very wrong. Their bond, once unblocked, started going haywire. Jackson had never felt anything like that – that urge to get to his alpha, to protect his friend all driven by the desperate need to protect their bond which meant keeping Stiles safe. Stiles was the only one he had in the world, the only one he cared about and for. He was family and family was supposed to protect each other. And protect Jackson would.

Jackson emerged from the woods and without stopping turned sharp right and continued running, now down the street. There was a sharp spike down the bond that made Jackson give out an involuntary whine.

He had to get to Stiles, now. And he was going to, no matter what. Or who.

Jackson could hear the commotion up ahead and had no doubt that Stiles was involved. Not that he really cared. If he had to stand up to the whole damn town and protect him from the people – he would. Even if it took his last breath.

Jackson took another turn and saw three police cars, as many ambulances, a fire truck and a few civilian cars surrounding the diner he once used to like in his school days. People were standing just behind the police tape, letting the police take the first line of defence. None of those could stop Jackson – he could feel the tug of the bond, and it was coming right from the building. He just had to pass the only hindrance.

He felt a spike of terror down the bond proving him that his anchorpackalpha was in danger.

As Jackson was nearing the line, he did not even think to slow down and ask permission or questions or find out what was going on. He strongly believed that once he would be near Stiles then everything would be fine. Because as long as they were together, they were fine.

He saw a hole in the crowd a beeline through which would’ve taken him right to the entrance of the diner. Perfect.

Jackson’s eyes flashed gold before he charged through the crowd. He waded past the people effortlessly, ducked under the tape, but when he was so close the net of three police officers caught him and he was on the ground in a second.

“Let me go!” he roared and tried to bat the hands of the deputies off. He thrashed in panic because Stiles was just right there, the bond was going haywire and these idiots were keeping him down. “I need to go in, I need to, you don’t understand…” His pack was there, his anchor – how could they not?

“Jackson, calm down,” came through the voice of Derek Hale.  Jackson froze, panting and trembling slightly.

Deputy Hale motioned the other deputies to lay off so he was the only one directly facing him. “Jackson I need you to listen to me now. Inside the diner, we have a hostage situation. Four hunters, all armed. The diner is sealed off with some mix of the mountain ash, as for right now – no one can get in, so stop this.” Jackson looked in Derek’s eyes, the realisation of his helplessness slowly downing on him. But if anyone could get out – it would be Stiles. Jackson just had to trust him to want to. His gaze slowly drifted off to the dinner, wishing he could see his pack mate through the windows. “I understand you’re worried about Lydia, but she is fine, we will get her out.”

Jackson’s gaze snapped to Derek. “Lydia?” he was completely bewildered. “She’s there?”

Jackson tuned in his hearing and immediately zeroed in on his ex-girlfriend’s voice, “ _My name is Lydia and my friend here is not who you…”_ and she was talking about Stiles, of all people.

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not here for her?”

Jackson heard a growl to his right. He shook off the deputies hands caging him, and seeing that he was no longer a threat, Derek let him. He stood up, dusted his pants and slowly turned to the growl that still did not subside and was greeted with a contemptuous scowl of a man in what looked like his thirties.

“Do you not smell it, nephew?” the man spit out. “He _reeks_ of Stiles.” He sniffed demonstratively and scrunched his face in disgust. “So his boy-toy rushed here to the rescue.”

Jackson subtly sniffed the air and immediately recognised the man who had rubbed himself all over Stiles the day before. So that was who kept Stiles busy from calling him.

“Last time I smelt,” Jackson deadpanned, “the new toy here was you. Not lasted long though, did you?”

Peter assumed a belligerent stance with his claws at his sides and Jackson gave him an ugly smirk. Deputy Derek Hale quickly stood between them, hands spread, warning and separating.

“Uncle Peter,” he growled and looked at him imploringly.

Peter huffed a laugh and gave Jackson a big fat smile, his hands up, clawless and lax, his whole body slowly turning away from him.

“I’ll see your gory mutilated body one day,” his smile was all teeth. “I guess you will see it too when I will be feeding part after part of it to pigs.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Peter,” blurted Derek, horrified. Peter’s face was undeterred. So was Jackson’s though, who just cocked one eyebrow up, challenging.

They both snapped away from their staring contest when the screaming began. From the noises coming from the diner, it was not very hard to understand what was going on – the hostages saw their opening and they fought for their right to live. Jackson though was concentrated only on one heart beat. He suspected Peter was too.

He listened to the desperate pleas of people inside and wished he could help somehow. But magical barriers, unfortunately, were not his forte. Although inside, there was someone who knew plenty about them. People inside seemed to have caught up to that though as well.

“ _You are a magic user…”_ he heard a girl say. He heard Stiles huff and smiled to himself a little. All this attention must’ve been unbearable to him after having been fleeing from it for his whole life.

Jackson waited tensely if Stiles could take it down. Any murmur that was going in the crowd ceased, everyone was waiting with baited breath. He heard Stiles curse in failure. It was okay though because one thing Stiles would never do was to give up. _That idiot,_ Jackson thought fondly. He stole a glance at Peter, who was now pacing back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists, slowly growling to himself. Jackson found it disconcerting. For how long did they know each other again?

Jackson felt a small strain on their bond, a tail-tale sign that Stiles was doing magic as well as relying on their bond to anchor himself. So he took a deep breath and concentrated on it, willing all the strength Stiles needed his way.

Two police officers were standing right before the doors, ready for them to open. So were the paramedics.

The moment Stiles said ‘ _Go’_ the doors burst open and people were piling out. Jackson did not move an inch because Stiles did not move. He just stood there, holding the barrier, still trapped in the spot. As soon as the last person stepped over the threshold the barrier was up again. And Stiles was still there. And so was Lydia.

Jackson’s throat closed in on itself. He felt like he could barely breathe. Why did he have to be so reckless? Jackson thought that in the past few days Stiles was behaving so unlike his usual self.

Jackson was sure it was this town’s fault. They had to get out of here as soon as possible.

He then heard a loud animalistic growl of despair to his right and he slowly turned to witness Peter, once again. Although this time his hands were clutching his head and pulling on the hair. Jackson frowned – even he was calmer than the dude, and Jackson obviously had more reasons to worry about Stiles. He knew him longer. And he had actual ties to the dude. So he just rolled his eyes at the tantrums, not taking them seriously, tuned out the deputies and paramedics questioning the now freed thanks to Stiles hostages and focused his hearing completely on the diner, which was a foolish thing to do because Lydia started screaming her lungs out.

Jackson cringed from the sound but generally was alright. He looked around and saw that surprisingly he and the deputies were the only ones still on their feet – everyone else on their knees or fully laying on the ground, screaming in pain, their hands clutching tightly at their ears, doing their best to protect themselves from the sound. All the civilians were down except for him. And Peter, of course.

Jackson sent a silent praise to Stiles for making him place a tattoo shielding him from different supernatural influences. He vowed to never question Stiles’ paranoia about protection ever again.

The screaming stopped as abruptly as it began. Jackson was still silently tracking his anchor’s movements. While Stiles was out in the back, he heard the movement of the hunters in the main area. He cursed silently and tugged at the bond, desperately wishing to caution Stiles from the ambush.

Unfortunately, Stiles still walked right into it. Jackson’s heart was beating a mile per minute. Lydia appeared in front of the window – she was as beautiful as he remembered, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, even dazed and weakened from screaming.

Next was Stiles – and it felt like his worst nightmare was coming true. A hunter, holding a gun to Stiles’ head. All the while he couldn’t do a thing. His heart tripped over itself and Jackson found it hard to breathe, he was so scared. He looked at Peter, looking for the same reaction, maybe some support, but all he saw was rage painted on his face. Right, what was Jackson even thinking?

He took a few deep breaths in, calming himself down using techniques Stiles showed him once.

And then he heard, “ _it’s you, you are Evander Crane_ ” and his body froze once again. No mantras could keep him calm when some hunters reveal the true identity of his anchor while keeping him at the gunpoint.

He could not believe this was happening. Stiles assured him that there was no one coming for him. Well, when he talked about family.

Jackson could barely continue listening to what was going inside – Stiles was getting hit, his horrible past getting unravelled. Jackson was slowly beginning to understand why Stiles never wanted to talk about it. If the man who raised him was even half like his brother then he was glad that he was burning in hell.

Child abusing prick.

He looked around again and noticed that once again almost everyone was listening in on the conversation, or well, the evil monologue. Those who couldn’t, had a werewolf whispering it in their ear.

Everyone knew about Stiles know. Shit. It took one check in with the Council, one mentioning of his name – and all would be over. They would take him away and Jackson would be left alone, again.

They had to get the fuck out this town. Curse or no curse, fuck it, there had to be another way. If not, they would find a way to live with it. Jackson would do anything for it, no matter what cost. They just had to get out of here.

Jackson was tense and jittery. He needed to act, now. He needed to get him out. But there was no way for him to do that on his own.

Stiles was in no rush to get out and that frightened him immensely. He did not find his life worthy on a good day, but this…

Their bond seemed still a bit blocked, at least from the other side. So he did one thing he could think of to remind his Alpha that his pack was there, worried, waiting.

He howled. He howled his heart out packing it the best of desperation he possessed.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Deputy Hale squeezed it once, in silent support, then silently walked to stand behind his uncle trusting other deputies to handle the future situation while he took care of his volatile and unpredictable uncle. Jackson thought it was smart.

It also helped that there was no one guarding him now.

And then he heard the _threat_.

“We need to go in,” he whispered. Peter turned his head to him, listening. “Please let it not be what I think it is, oh fuck, oh God, Stiles, do fucking _something_.”

And Stiles did something. And it was not enough. And then the dinner was on fire.

"Fire," Jackson breathed out in terrified and stunned awe. "No," his voice trembled. "You have to," he took a step and halted, "you have to get him out," his voice was rising with every wavering step he took. "You have to get him out, you hear me? Get him out! Fire, Fire! Fire!"

Jackson thought his heart stopped. He saw Peter hiss and take a step back. Everywhere around him was chaos. People, running around, panicking, trying to get away from the fire as far as they could. Deputies screaming orders. Firefighters springing into action.

Water was pouring onto the diner. He could also hear a few witches chanting nearby with a deputy by their side.

But the fire would not stop. If anything, it was getting bigger and bigger, spreading and spreading, killing any sense of hope Jackson had.

Then he heard them arguing. Stiles, all selfless, was trying to force Lydia out, save her. And no matter how stubborn Lydia was, Stiles never took no for an answer. So Jackson actually saw it coming - when Lydia crashed through the door, Jackson was there to catch her, he had just acted and was there just in time to save her from all the unnecessary additional bruises.

He cradled her close, secured her in his arms and carried her to the nearest ambulance.

Jackson could hardly tear his eyes from her. So beautiful, so smart…he wondered if he had ever stopped loving her. Her eyelids fluttered and their eyes met. She managed to grab him by the shirt and started muttering his name frantically.

“Shh, Lydia, it’s okay. You’re going to be fine, you hear me? You’re safe, you’re out.”

“Stiles,” she choked out and tears started streaming down her face.  But Jackson was sure, once he had dealt with the last hunter he would also get out. It was a logical thing to do, wasn’t it?

Jackson gently laid her on the gurney and with a small squeeze of her hand, he left her to the care of paramedics.

He walked back to the spot he held, his heart pounding madly in his chest. There were only two left, and Stiles just had to be the one of the two, surviving. The guy had the shittiest luck.

Peter was quiet beside him, only flexing his hands and staring unwaveringly at the diner. Jackson was sure that Peter Hale was ready for anything now. If he had a choice, Jackson thought he would’ve jumped right into the fire, just to save Stiles.

He once again thought about how strange this whole thing was, what Stiles had with Peter, or to be more specific, Peter had with Stiles. Two days and he was already ready to throw himself into the fire for him.

He felt terror pouring down the bond and it was like a strike of lightning down his gut, making him hard to breathe. His breaths were coming in short, matching Stiles’. There was no evading the subject, there was no running away from the trouble – not without Stiles anyway. At that particular moment, Jackson had never felt so helpless in his entire life.

Jackson flinched every time he heard a piece of ceiling falling down. He prayed in his head for Stiles to get it together and get the fuck out. Or at least hold the barrier so that he could run in and take him. Flames and burns be damned.

He could feel Stiles losing all the hope. He could not blame him though, that was exactly how _he_ felt.

In the end, there was only one thing that could help. Or, well, a person.

“Flo,” he whispered urgently. “Where the fuck are you?” Jackson continued furiously, tears slowly forming in his eyes. He refused it to be the end.

“Flo, for fuck’s sake! Do something!” Jackson gave out a high pitched whine and could barely hold himself together. “You’ll burn, you’ll burn, you’ll die…” his voice cracked on the last syllable and his breath hitched.

And then there were the magic words, **_“It’s time to get out now.”_**

A full sentence. He heard a full fucking sentence coming out from Stiles’ mouth and froze, not daring to breeze. He felt Peter shift closer, just as ready as he was for the rescue.

His chest filled with hope. And then it was crushed, with a sledgehammer once he heard the spark not collaborating. Of all times it decided to through a fit.

He heard his name. He wished he had something to lean on, his legs were shaking so bad. His hope was crumbling with every word of begging, with every cough Stiles gave out.

Jackson took in every word. He was theirs and they were his. Pack. If not for themselves then at least for him. They had to survive. And yet, the frustrated curses coming from Flo told Jackson that this was it. A day in Beacon Hills and it was the end.

Jackson could feel the bond connecting him to Stiles wavering, fading just a little bit. He grabbed at his chest as if he could hold the bond together and keep it from leaving him. He tore his shirt accidentally – he did not even notice that he had lost control.

He had a second of warning – and then his worst nightmare came true. The building roared and blew up. It exploded into thousand little pieces that were going everywhere. Jackson automatically turned around, covering his face.

The desperate soul-tearing gut-wrenching scream was muffled by the fire.

He quickly looked around but otherwise was frozen in his steps.

There was no heartbeat inside. There was no of that familiar heartbeat outside either.

Jackson slowly crumpled to his knees. One single tear slid down his cheek. He felt just as dead.

He heard the earth shaking howl to his right and could blearily see Peter running into the building, right into the shattered remains of the building, where the fire was still at large.

“Peter!” rang out a terrified scream of Derek Hale.

But it was too late. Peter was inside. By the sounds of it, it felt like a wild savage animal was trashing the building.

Jackson felt like he was in a daze. He was numb and detached from the world. He hung his head and tuned out the heartbreaking howl of one Peter Hale. Just the thought of looking at the remains was making him puke. Even worse, if those remains, parts of his alpha’s body were scattered, or burned…

He felt like vomiting and was quickly losing control of his wolf. His claws bit into the meat of his hands. Jackson was huddled on the ground, trying to contain himself. He was hurting but in his books, it did not mean that it was okay hurting anyone else.

He could hear Peter kicking and then tearing into flesh. By the smell of it, it was the roasted hunter Stiles had to fight last.

Stiles.

Jackson folded in on himself tighter and was a second away from breaking down. He would once he felt the lack of bond. Better sooner than later, they say…

He focused on his bond, his anchor and saw a clean cut on it. To say Jackson was bewildered was to say nothing. The bond was still there, the thread that held them together but the strange thing was that just an inch was missing right in the middle, separating the two strung red threads.

If Stiles was dead there would be no bond to begin with. But there was even though an odd one, but it was there so…it meant…it meant that…

Jackson unclenched his whole body and pitched forward falling onto his knees. He changed the position, now standing on his hands and knees, trying to get up. He stumbled but finally did so his first words once on his feet were, “He’s alive.”

No one heard him though. They did not have a reason.

So he did the next thing he felt like he was obliged to.

“Peter!” he hollered. He felt like they had bonded over this experience so sue him for wanting to share the news with the man he felt like despising.

A shifted bloodied head of a werewolf emerged from the ruins and fire, crouched and feral, and looked him right in the eyes.

“He’s alive,” Jackson said, trying to convince not only Peter but himself as well.

_Trust the bond_ , Stiles always said.

Jackson just prayed that this was the right time to start trusting it.

Peter stood up from the crouched position and started prowling menacingly towards Jackson. He would be a fool to think that he had nothing to fear, seeing this slightly crazed-out look in Peter’s eyes and the blood dripping from his claws as well as fangs. He looked straight out of a slasher movie. Or a saw one. It all worked really.

Only a few steps separating them when Peter lunged at him and took a tight hold of his throat. His face was all up in Jackson’s, all the blood too close for his comfort.

This was the last time he was being nice and comforting someone he did not even like. Ever. So not worth it.

From the corner of his eye he could see three deputies, Derek included, their guns aimed at Peter, saying something at his back.

Peter did not give a shit.

So Jackson repeated himself.

“He’s alive,” he croaked. “I can feel it.”

The hold on his throat loosened and a hand holding his throat fell to the side. One beat, two, when Peter slurred “ _Bullshit_ ” through his fangs and raised his clawed hand up in rage, all ready and set for a fatal strike.

At that exact moment he felt a tug at his bond, and, not caring about the fate of his throat, he looked past Peter’s shoulder.

A second later, Stiles, all face and clothes covered in soot, bruises and scratches colouring his face and body, eyes a bit glassy and totally spaced out, appeared out of a thin air just between Jackson and a burnt out diner, breathing and alive.

Everything after that was a mess. Peter suddenly froze mid hit, his eyes dilated and, now fangless and clawless although a lot bloodied, he turned around and run at Stiles, enveloping him in his arms tightly, squeezing and touching him everywhere, sniffing and marking him, making sure he was alright and supporting his weight when the young spark seemed not to have any energy left in him.

While Peter was all over Stiles and people were once again being loud and busy, Jackson closed his eyes and let out a sigh of bone crushing relief. The bond was whole again. Stiles was right in front of him albeit smothered by some middle-aged man.

It was alright though. At least for now. Later, he would not let Stiles out of his sight.

Now though, he was saying thanks to everything that was holy and praising a weirdo, Stiles, his Stiles, for being special and bloody stubborn.

At that moment he did not care about the deputies or what could they think of them. He did not even think about the Council and the repercussions that would follow. Because surely they would’ve noticed if someone would start teleporting himself.

No, he did not care at all. He would up and change his whole identity, change his whole life if needed.

Family mattered. And Stiles was his family. His only family.

He would do anything.

At that moment, he really felt sorry for Peter. Because Jackson was going to make sure that he would not stay long in their lives.


	13. The Life And Death of Claudia Stilinski

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been long since I last posted. Sorry.  
> I actually wrote this chapter twice but the first time it failed to fucking save, and the second time my computer just motherfucking died and wiped EVERY.SINGLE.FILE.  
> All the stories and fics as well as five years of university work - gone, just gone.  
> I am still distraught about that. It was the worst fucking year.  
> I am also severely depressed, have been for the longest of times, and I hope I will be brave enough to quit university -because fuck master's degree, who cares about that - and have some time for myself, and possibly for my writing.  
> Hope you like the chapter!  
> No promises about the next one, sorry. Although I am open to some words of encouragement.  
> Enjoy!

Stiles was sitting, was he? He was... But wasn't there fire? Or was it darkness? Someone was screaming, and screeching, and wailing, presenting the whole paradigm of pain and despair and agony. 

He blinked and he was sitting in the Sheriff's office. His head was bowed; arms smudged with black were stretched in front of him. He blinked sluggishly as if waking up from a dream, a terrible nightmare. He dreamt his past had come for him and intended a cruel retribution for his deeds.  

He took a shallow breath, tentative, testing the air for the richness of oxygen. It smelled like ink, gunpowder and burnt black coffee. An alien smell tainted the comfort of the law. He opened his palms and in that instant, his sight blurred as if trying to shield him from the gruesome picture. He blinked, tried to focus but what he got was the full awakening of his other senses. His muscles were stiff and sore; raw edges of torn skin pull at him yet he could not pinpoint exactly where they were located. The acrid smell of blood and decay suddenly infiltrated his nose and he flexed his throat as if he was tempted to barf. 

He snapped his eyes close in the attempt to escape such a frightful reality however what he accomplished was only an overwhelming growing intensity of feelings and sensations. He opened them again - one could tell he was in pain just from his lost clouded look, - and decided he was ready to engage with life and look up. 

He was sitting on a sofa, there was a desk a little further away from him. He blinked and blinked, getting used to not only seeing, but processing the sight as well. He turned his head to the right and winced a little at the stiffness of his muscles.  

To his right sat John Stilinski. He was half-turned to Stiles, shoulders hunched a little. He seemed to be talking but to his hands. Stiles could not see his eyes but he knew just from the lines near that they were sad. 

Stiles blinked and blinked, squinted and frowned, blinked and blinked. 

"...day of my life. I was afraid I was moving too... only a few dates, but I knew, deep inside I knew that we were meant... her, her and me. She said 'yes' anyway so... who the hell was I to doubt? I asked, she agreed. We were going to be together...I had hoped forever." 

Stiles could not understand what the man was talking about but from just one look at the pale distraught face, he knew that this was important. 

"We bought a house near the forest, she said it was perfect for the garden. She said it felt right, she said we would be happy there," Stiles watches in mild alarm as the Sheriff give out a shaky sigh and continues, "she said our son would love it one day." 

Sheriff's eyes went glassy for a moment and Stiles held his breath. The man abruptly let out an unhappy chuckle that seemed to be torn out of him. 

"I was stunned. I asked if she was pregnant and she just smiled at me and said, 'not yet but someday'. That's how I knew it was real, that she wanted it, she wanted to build a life with me, it was serious not only for me but for her as well... I was over the moon, I loved her so much, she was everything I have ever dreamed of. Sometimes it felt like she was reading my mind, we were so good together, she was so good to me...I would go to work and she would warn me of things, just these little things sometimes, like change the batteries in the radio, take an extra pair of handcuffs you'll need them today, take an umbrella it'll rain at noon. She had been the star that guided me through life, I did not know how could I ever had done without her." 

The wistful expression on the man's face was hard to look at so Stiles carefully averted his eyes. It did sound nice, what the Sheriff was talking about. Just two people, who wanted the same thing, who loved each other, knew each other enough to be vital in each other's lives. 

"We were married for two years when she broke the news that we were expecting. I was in a panic," the Sheriff chuckled, looking painfully happy reminiscing. "I was so scared. I wanted to be a good dad. She was just into her first trimester but she said she just knew it would be a boy and I believed her, I did not doubt her for a second. So, I just...panicked... a little. I started buying kid's stuff like a madman. Claudia was calm in her garden like nothing changed at all and me...oh I was a wreck. I obsessively started buying toys, clothes, furniture, all the little things that fell into my eye. I bought him a baseball bat and thought about signing up for some practice so that I'd be ready to teach my boy one day, be a good dad..." 

Stiles' heart seized. The Sheriff would be an excellent dad. He would be a dad any kid could dream of. So why did the story not sit well with Stiles? 

"...and Claudia would only laugh and say that she was not even showing. She would laugh and say she'd rather I bought some cake because she really wanted some. She had that cake anytime she wanted after that...At that time I thought that life was full of joy and nothing could ever make it change...I was such a fool... " 

The last part the Sheriff ended in a whisper and his voice died. He was staring again, at nothing. Stiles was starting to sweat from the nerves, fully alert. 

"She was six months pregnant when she got the diagnosis of frontotemporal dementia. She had some signs before but...but I...I did not know that it was not normal, that it meant that she had something...What a fool, I was such a fool. They said it was progressing fast, they said that they did not know why. They said that she was a danger to the baby, to herself... Sometimes she could not even remember me, sometimes she did not know she was pregnant. She would say the strangest things...like that she was 14 and it was too early for her, or she said that I had to run, to chase...someone, not to let someone leave, and then she'd try...it was horrible.

She managed to escape from the hospital once. To this day I do not know how she did that. She just...vanished. I was worried sick. I was horrified at the possibilities, at what could happen to a delirious pregnant woman out on the streets. The jeep was gone too. It still is.I gave up looking for it years ago. She left in a jeep and then came back barefoot to our house. She just smiled at me, hugged me and said that she was taking care of their son. I nearly had a heart attack, I was so scared that she forgot who she was again, and tried to...tried to...to, to kill herself...or, or the b-baby. I took her to the hospital right away. She said she left a little message on the inside of the door and drew a leaf right under it just so he knew it was from her." 

Stiles' breath caught. What the fuck, he thought, what the actual fuck. He blinked at the tentative mental knock from Flo but brushed it away. It just could not be. 

"I did not know what she meant, those days I never could understand. As she was nearing her due date she was becoming more and more lucid. She would only sometimes get this faraway look in her eyes. But even then she would only speak of our son, of our future. How she could picture us in the woods, us laughing together, how he would drive a black Jeep, how he would crash it near the woods, but it would be okay, because the forest would look after him, she said we would be so close, I would tell him everything, and he would too...she never once mentioned herself in her stories. I did not care because she was with me, she was my Claudia again, she was doing so well, even doctors were hopeful... And then she finally gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. He was, he was..." 

The Sheriff closed his face with his palms and trembled. Stiles could feel his eyes filling with tears. He laid a hand on the Sheriff's shoulder in silent support. 

John Stilinski bravely let his hands slide down and looked Stiles in the eyes. 

"Was..." Stiles croaked. 

The Sheriff turned away and nodded. "He was precious. I did not know I lived before I looked at him. So tiny. So fragile. My son. I looked at Claudia and she smiled at me. I remember everything in such a detail. She smiled at me, I smiled at her back. I gave her our son and she named him Mieczysław. I did not even think what a nightmare of a name it was, I just smiled at her happily. I think it was the last time in 23 years that I've been truly happy..." 

The Sheriff clasped his hands together, his knuckles were white. 

"Our son started crying so the nurse took him. And then Claudia started choking on air. The doctors rushed in. They asked me to wait outside. A nurse took the baby for a check-up, just to be sure. I was left alone in the hallway, I was scared. Fifteen minutes later they told me my wife died. They did not know why. They said the autopsy would show. She died and she was not coming back.I do not remember much after that. When I came to it I was on the floor then, I was such a mess. I knew I had to get up. I had my son waiting for me, I was the only parent he had, and he was the only family I had. So I got up. Doctors were standing near me, I did not even notice. They were nervous I could tell. They said there was something wrong with his heart, it did not work properly. I asked them how could they not notice it before. They said it happens. And then they told me that my son, my day-year-old son died on the operation table... 

I was in denial at first. I refused to believe. Claudia said...she said we would be together, she said...she said he would live. But the doctors say that he is dead. I was in such a deep denial. I went into a full Sheriff's mode. I started questioning doctors, I looked through the files, then I questioned them again. Later they said that they identified poison in Claudia's blood. It killed her. She was murdered. Someone murdered my wife, mere hours after she gave birth to our son. I could not understand why. Why would someone do that to her? To us? To our son. And I thought that maybe there was something wrong with my son's death too, I was dreading every outcome. The only thought that gave me hope was that they made a mistake and my son was alive. I wished, I prayed. I was harassing the staff mercilessly because Claudia was always right and my son could not be dead...But then it came to me that he really was, I had every proof before me, my wife was murdered and my son died, and I broke...I wished I was dead as well so that at least we could be together. But her voice would ring in my ears saying, 'promise you'll live, my love, promise me you will'. She said those out of the blue one day and even after I've lost everything I held onto that one promise because then I felt closer to her... I dedicated my life to revenge... but I did not find a single clue. There was nothing." 

The Sheriff chuckled hollowly. 

"I think she knew she was going to die, after all, she really did never mention herself in the stories. I just never expected my son to die as well." 

Stiles' mind went into overdrive. The Sheriff had a son and a wife. They died. But his wife had some abilities, he was sure of it, but they had to be faulty because she said the son would live but he was dead...was he? It had to be connected, it all just had to. This all had to be somehow connected with the truth that Stiles was supposed to tell. Was he supposed to find out who the murderer was? But how could he possibly know? Or even find out? Why him? 

She must've had an ability to peek into the future – a clairvoyant? Maybe someone was afraid of that power or did not want her knowing something. But if she could see future how could she not know that she would be killed? Or did she know? Then why did she not stop it from happening? Or was it like in those movies where once you see the future it cannot be changed?  

But why was she killed in the hospital right after giving birth? They wanted her alive, Stiles realised with horror. For the baby. Because there was a strong chance that the baby would inherit some of that magic. Even if not the sight then some magical abilities, it was always possible. A magical baby would be valuable, parentless, untrained, a blank slate. A little baby with magical abilities. Up for grabs. For anyone to train. Just like...Stiles. 

He was a kid, an orphan, with no parents, - those who raise him were not and never even felt like, - but just with his growing magic. 

No, that was a wild speculation, Stiles thought. Shit happens to people. 

But the other thing kept bothering him. The jeep, the sodding jeep. There was the day she got lost, when she lost the jeep, or more like left the jeep with an engraving to her … Stiles felt his breath catch in his throat. Bullshit, he thought at once. Wishful thinking. Because it could not be. 

It just could not be. 

But he did not buy the Jeep, did he? It was  _left_  for him. Well, it was left for someone, just waiting for the owner, a baby blue Jeep, and then he did something, and the man just gave him the keys and said that it was his. The salesman said that it was for 'Stiles' and he thought, why cannot I be Stiles? So, he pretended and surely other people tried that before? But the difference was that that guy believed him, believed  _him,_ and suddenly he was an owner of a jeep when he most needed it. 

And then the Sheriff said, off-handedly, "She said we would make a perfect picture, my pale blue aura, her raspberry pink, and in between us, our baby boy in pure blooming..." 

"Purple," Stiles said on the exhale with wide eyes. The Sheriff just nodded, without looking at Stiles who was having a mild panic attack just right there and then. Because aura didn't lie. He looked down at his hands and let his eyes go unfocused – deep, deep purple, no admixtures, just some pale blue on its fringes, indicating his ancestry. 

Aura's did not lie. Just like the carvings on some Jeep. It still did not mean a thing, did not... 

The woods welcomed him on his first day. The border was locked to let in only those with direct permission/invitation or those who've been there before. Stiles did not have an official welcome, he only had a suggestion to find a person, he did not...the woods  _welcomed_ him. They welcomed him like a long-lost son. A son. He was a... 

Stiles looked at the Sheriff, deeply confused and frightened. 

"Why?" He asked and gesticulated a bond between them, this conversation, this heart-to-heart.  _Why are you telling me this? Why me?_  

This heart-to-heart.  _He would tell me everything, she said._  

The Sheriff simply looked at him, trying to hide his confusion.  

"Because it felt right." Stiles' heart could give out right then and there. "There is something about you...I don't know...you just remind me..." 

The Sheriff looked at Stiles' face searchingly and Stiles felt himself pale.  

He stumbled shakily to his feet, wincing in pain because of the stab wound, and walked forward, his back to the Sheriff, only to face a photo on the wall. In the midst of awards to the Sheriff was a framed photo of a beautiful woman standing beside a baby blue Jeep. 

Stiles felt he could faint any minute.  

He had to leave. He had to leave now _,_  right the fuck  _now._  He had to see the inscription on the jeep. He knew it's there, the words and the leaf, he had seen it a thousand times. But what did it say? He could not remember. He had seen it so many times and he could not in the world of him remember what it said. How could he forget? How could he forget what his moth- 

_No_. Stiles was still in denial because it could not be. Because if it was then the Sheriff was...this man was his actual...and the truth he would have to tell he was... 

He had to go, now, pronto. 

"Stiles," the Sheriff said and Stiles flinched. "Or is it David? Or perhaps Evander?" 

Stiles turned to look at the Sheriff, his potential  _someone_ , but the Sheriff was calm, even surprisingly calm for someone who had just spoken about the worst times of his life. 

"According to our files, Evander Crane died in the fire alongside his parents 11 years ago. Would you like to clear that up?" 

And according to your other files, _Mieczysław_ _Stilinski died 23 years ago._  

And maybe he did. Or maybe he did not. But Stiles did not feel like commenting on that at the moment either. 

So, in the end, he simply shook his head. 

And then there's a thought - he had a  _name._ At birth given one, his name could be, it was...

_Oh, no, not now, not now._

The Sheriff sighed, probably frustrated.  _Who wouldn't be, hunters had just blown up a dinner and killed innocent_ _citizen_ _s_ _, oh and a_ _rogue spark turned out to be some dead kid..._  

Stiles willed his thoughts to calm the fuck down because he was not ready to face it, that he was, what he could be... 

Sheriff Stilinski said then, "I will let you go now. You should get checked out and wash. You are all covered in blood and soot, kid. But I expect you here in the evening, we should talk about this hunter thing." 

Stiles nodded in consent at the Sheriff's demanding stare. 

"Also," he started with unease, "there are two werewolves waiting for you outside. They kept bickering so I made them wait on the street. Two werewolves, I cannot help but notice, one is a Hale the left-hand and the other one is the Whittemore run-away boy. But I guess you have no comment on that right now either?" 

Stiles just nodded dumbly. The Sheriff nodded as well. 

"That's fine. Go rest, kid. See you later." And then, as an afterthought or some attempt at the joke, he said, "Don’t leave town." 

And with that Stiles opened the door and found himself scrutinized by dozens of people, who halted their proceedings just to stare at him. Stiles sent them a mental 'fuck you' and went to the exit. 

Jackson was waiting for him. He had to tell him, he had to tell him...what exactly? That he had suspicions and some evidence that he was...that he was... but voicing those suspicions was making everything true. And he could not avoid it because Jackson would ask. Of course, he would, and Stiles would have to answer but he  _couldn't_ because that would mean... 

Stiles wished that it all would go away, just away. He wanted just to forget everything. 

He had almost died for Christ sake. His uncle tried to kill him, there were hunters, he almost got stabbed, then he almost got burnt to death and then...he did not really remember what was happening after, but he came to it in the Sheriff's office, and then he found out that he... 

He did not want to think about anything at all. 

He walked through the main doors and there they were, standing separately, one to the right, one to the left. Stiles looked at Jackson, assessing his well-being through the bond and appearance. He had his shirt torn and some blood on his neck and face but generally he looked fine, albeit distressed. Then he looked at Peter, who was covered from head to toe in blood, his shirt burnt at the edges, indicating that he was in the fire although Stiles could not understand when exactly. 

They were both standing there, waiting for him, like in some romance flick. But there was nothing to choose. Jackson was his pack, his anchor, his familiar so he immediately went into his arms, letting the wolf scent him and make sure he was alright. 

But because he was all that Stiles could not face him, not really, not for long. So he buried his face in Jackson's neck, mimicking wolf's position and sighed miserably. 

"You're hurt. Let's get you to the hospital, okay?" 

But Stiles only shook his head and stepped back. He bent, touched the stab wound on his calf and hissed. Stiles did not know how but it had to heal so that Jackson would not have to worry anymore. A tiny curl of fire sprang from his fingertips and dove into the wound. A second later it was closed. 

He looked back up at Jackson and smiled at him weakly.  _Jackson will be so pissed,_ he thought.  _And_ _rightfully_ _so._  

But how could he explain though? He did not have the words, in every meaning. 

So, he just squeezed his shoulder once, nodded to him like some douche from the super gang and said, "Later." 

Anger, disappointment, worry, longing and fear poured in the bond as Stiles turned away and walked to Peter. He wished he could be a better person which the werewolf needed but he did not believe he was or even could be. 

As Stiles came near, Peter dove and enveloped him in his arms, pressing himself as close as possible to Stiles, who just relaxed and embraced the worry. If Peter did not think about the fact that he was rejected just before the accident, then neither would Stiles. He needed this, he would not sabotage it with needless worry. 

Peter started peppering Stiles'face with gentle but urgent kisses. Stiles closed his eyes. This was what he needed. No questions, no riddles. Just this. 

Stiles opened his eyes and squeezed Peter's arm to gain his attention which was granted to him immediately. Peter was looking at him attentively, ready for any request, even eager to please. 

Stiles once again could not help but wonder _why_. They've known each other for two days. He wanted him since he laid eyes on him. He thought about dating him just after a second conversation with the man. And Peter was presenting himself bare before him, letting him see his vulnerabilities. It was strange, it could not be right. 

The problem was though that it felt natural. Standing here, in Peter's hands, trusting him to take care of him, being comforted and fussed over by him felt  _natural._  

He had never felt anything like this before.  

At that moment, he could not think of a single reason why he should not have this. He could not understand how could he let this man go in that forsaken dinner.  

It's good that it burned then because it most definitely burned Stiles' rejection. 

Stiles looked into Peter's eyes and asked, "Home." 

Peter just nuzzled his temple and murmured, "Of course, my love. Of course. I will take you home. I will take care of you. Nothing will harm you ever again. You're mine, you're safe." 


	14. Smelling Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I dropped my uni.  
> I finished the semester, passed all my exams, made sure there was no debt, even in the library, then went to administration and said that I fucking quit.  
> They asked me to stay (I paid them a lot of money, of course, they asked), asked what's wrong and I told them that I was tired, I had a lot of trouble with German, and I just did not want to go on. And anyway if I ever wanted that degree, I could always come back and pick up from where I stopped, I did finish the semester after all.And you know what they said? They said that I couldn't. I should finish the whole year and only then drop out (although they said, only a moron would do that). But if I drop out only after one semester and decide to come back later, then I should start all over again.As if the whole semester I studied didn't matter. Because that's what the law said.  
> And then I snapped and was confident in my decision more than ever. If the university did not care about its students, then why the fuck should I care about it? I'd rather have my sanity than a piece of paper.  
> So I said 'fuck you threeways' and took my documents. Fuck that shit.  
> Now I'm slowly pulling myself back together, and I'm just glad that I'm not there any longer.
> 
> Sorry it took so long to post the chapter. Some moments were really hard to write. I also added new tags so be warned.

As Stiles was sitting in the car, he could not help but think. He did not want to, he would even give the ability to talk at all just to stop bloody thinking. Alas, he was still punished with 23 seconds. 

The woman in the photo, the one who stood beside her- no his, - the car was beautiful. Pale complexion dotted with moles, fair short hair and a wild glint in her gold-brown eyes. From a tiny smirk on her lips, one could tell she had mischief in her, but the lines around it testified to kindness. 

Stiles only had a glimpse but he could already see the resemblance. 

It was terrifying.  

He had been thinking about it before, of course, about who his mother could be. On his day out from the centre, he even dared to look for her. Well, actually, he was looking for himself - a baby born somewhere around the year his parents claimed he was born, a baby kidnapped or lost.  

There was no match. 

From despair, he started his search among the dead but Flo was sensible enough to point out that it was still like looking for a needle in a haystack. Statistically, 11,300 babies die in the US on the day they were born every year. 

He even did not have even a scrap of information about his parents. He knew his blood type and gender, obviously, but it cut the search barely to half. 

He was not even sure it was even worth looking though. 

He had to take care of himself. He had magic to control, a demon to tolerate and a psychological trauma to get over. 

He never thought about his real father though for the image of the one who raised him was too prominent in his mind to have a room for imagining someone else in his position. 

Now though. Now he had no choice but to think. The knowledge was so unexpected and sudden that he was still stunned helpless. 

His thoughts were taking a dark path where the inevitable question was in his way - Was it his fault that his mother was murdered? 

What he could get from the story was that they wanted him - a baby with unrestricted yet uncertain magical abilities. If Claudia had some psychic abilities then he could have turned just like her.  

What he turned out to be was so much more though. 

So they killed her to have him. Which basically meant that he was guilty of his mother’s death. He killed her. He killed his own mother. He killed both of them, he killed two mothers.   
He was not just some killer. He was a murderer, of the worst kind. He committed an unforgivable sin, not once, not twice but, to think about it, even thrice.  

A now John Stilinski was going to die too. He could be his dad, no, bloody no, the truth was that he was his dad, and he would fucking die because of it. Those arsehole hunters came into town for him, they promised to slaughter everyone, they sealed the territory, only body bags would get out. And his- his dad was always just there, always where there's trouble because he's the Sheriff for Christ sake. And in his mind, he had nothing to lose. He would gladly die just to join his wife but die like a warrior, to make her proud. 

And his own son would kill him. Because he destroyed everything he touched. He killed those he had the closest.  

He killed not only one of his parents, not two but three and soon he would complete the sequence because they would kill the sheriff even though he seemed like such a nice man and it would be all his fault. All his fault, he killed them all, if only he was not born, why was he... 

A hand gently landed on his left thigh and he looked up to see Peter, sitting serenely behind the wheel. 

When he looked out the window and through the windshield, he saw a rapidly spreading forward crack in the road, right in its middle. 

He did that. He was doing that. He was such a fucking hazard, to everyone, to everything, he- 

Peter's hand squeezed his thigh. Stiles looked at him again and started counting, trying to calm the fuck down. 

 _He is so good to me,_  he thought and promptly blushed. 

It was ridiculous. Life was ridiculous. It did not make a single shred of sense. And yet here he was, letting Peter Hale drive him god knew where. 

Stiles looked at him then. He was a mess but he was calm. Stiles had no idea how he’d managed that but he did and here he was, sitting behind the wheel, so handsome and calm, taking Stiles’ trust and driving them where he thought best. 

Stiles was just about to start questioning whatever this was between them when he mentally put a cage around those thoughts. He was done doubting. For the first time in his life, he was letting go and enjoying the moment. He earned that, he was fucking owned that.  

The car came to a gentle stop in front of a four-storey apartment complex that was a twin to a few other buildings that were on that street. Stiles looked to his left, out the window and stared into the woods that started just beyond the road. Deep, dark and menacing – it felt like a bad vibe was dropped on them and they were struggling to overthrow it. The mist was the only thing missing to darken their mood in the evening. 

His view was obscured by Peter, who was already standing before his door and opening it for him. Stiles finally stumbled out of the car, his body swaying but not toppling over for Peter’s hand was around his waist, supporting and soothing. 

“Where?” Stiles wondered although it was pretty obvious. He just wanted to hear Peter talk, anyone to talk, really, except the voice in his head, and Peter was the only one there, and he was glad. 

“I brought you to my apartment, darling,” Peter answered him smoothly and steered them to the entrance, “I hope you don’t mind.” 

They were in front of an elevator and Stiles tilted his head to lean it on Peter’s shoulder who, in response, nuzzled his hair and squeezed his side tighter.  

A minute later they were already stepping through the door. Stiles did not particularly care about the surroundings, he just cared that there was a wall to his right, which he gladly leaned on while Peter was busy with locks. 

The room was dark, yet neither of them bothered with lights. Stiles felt Peter’s presence just right in front of him, finally still, just looming, breathing. 

He sensed Peter’s hands just before he felt them cup his face gently. He then rested his forehead against Stiles’. 

He knew they both closed their eyes and just focused on each other’s presence. Stiles placed his hands on Peter’s waist, to anchor himself. 

“I was so worried about you,” Peter whispered as if revealing a secret. “More than anything in the world, I wanted to get you out of there, keep you safe, and then take my sweet time tearing each hunter limb from limb.” 

Stiles let out a shuddering breath. No one had ever felt like this for him, he had never heard so much devotion in someone’s voice, such fierce passion and protectiveness. 

He should be afraid and yet he was not. 

“No one will harm you, no one will even dare to lay a finger on you ever again,” he continued and pressed himself closer, aligning their bodies, "because you’re  _mine._ ” 

The growl in his voice, the possessiveness. 

No, Stiles did not feel scared. He thought it was incredibly hot. 

The space between their lips was easy to fill. The soft, tentative kiss, that felt so much like treasuring and worshipping, changed swiftly with just an insistent caress of Stiles’ hand over Peter’s behind into an act of raw passion and desperation. 

Peter’s hands travelled from his face to his hair, then his neck, when they lingered, fingers rubbing at his tender skin, then down his shoulders, and over his heart, feeling him, marking with his scent. 

Stiles broke the kiss and Peter immediately dived for his neck, marking him with his teeth and tongue, staking a claim. Stiles keened when Peter lapped at the mark and then reinforced it, repeating his claiming actions. 

The hands on his chest suddenly were full of dangerous claws, that wasted no time in tearing his shirt apart. Not a single one touched his skin or harmed him in any way. His shirt was torn piece by piece, though, and was slowly falling down, and down, and down, and when Stiles even thought of shivering due to the exposure, Peter’s heated body was already pressing into him, covering him, protecting. 

Peter’s mouth was moving down, marking his collarbone. It was not disturbed by blood on his skin, nor stalled by soot covering him. Peter was cleaning patches after patches of skin with his tongue, thoroughly, methodically, until it was clean enough to place his own red bruising mark. 

It was completely silent in the apartment. That is why hitches in Stiles’ breath and his beating heart were so loud in his ears. 

Peter’s hands travelled along his arms until they stopped at his wrists, gently holding them, as he was slowly sinking to his knees, his mouth still lapping at skin in front of him. 

Stiles’ body was burning at every touch. His arm was on fire, and Stiles gave a low hiss of pain, for it only to turn into a hiss of pleasure as Peter was marking a path down his torso. 

When he was fully on his knees, Peter placed his hands on Stiles’ buckle and looked up at him. His eyes were glowing electric blue. Stiles’s hand found a way to his hair and then he nodded. 

Stiles’ breath hitched once again. After this day he thought he would never be able to breathe rhythmically and calmly ever again. He was ruined, ruined by the heat of Peter’s mouth on him, by his wandering hands, by his claiming grip. He was ruined so thoroughly by him. 

Stiles’s head thumped against the wall in pleasure but he was quick to look back down at his cock disappearing in Peter’s mouth, over and over again, quick and slow, deep and shallow, never repeating the pattern. The man was driving him absolutely crazy.  

He tightened his hand in Peter’s hair, released a panting moan into the dark and heard Peter growl in response. Encouraged by Stiles’ loss of control, he doubled his efforts and Stiles thought his brain was being sucked right out, his entire being, his soul. And Peter – he was ravenous; it was as if he has not had a meal in a week and suddenly a buffet was in front of him. He licked, he sucked, he played with his balls, he scratched at his thighs, - and at some point, Stiles just lost himself in pleasure, letting go everything, except the hair in his grip, the only anchor to reality. 

He came back to Peter gently kissing his way back his body, especially lingering on bruises he previously left forming. As he was for the third time abusing his neck, Stiles yanked him up and gave a bruising kiss himself.  

Peter was once again everywhere, he was his everything. 

“I..”, Stiles tried to start but he found it hard to even try to talk, not that he could though. 

Peter’s hands were once again cupping his face as he peered into Stiles’s eyes, trying to parse the possible continuation of the sentence. 

“Let’s get you some water,” he murmured and pecked him on his lips.  

Stiles let out a stunned yelp as Peter lifted him. He automatically wrapped his legs around werewolf’s waist and let Peter carry him, what he assumed was kitchen. 

Peter placed him gently on the counter and fussed about the shelves. Stiles just closed his eyes and smiled to himself. He could not wish for more. 

He let Peter guide the flow of water as he brought the glass to his lips. 

He drank the whole glass and nodded in satisfaction, “thanks.” 

Peter started purring and then nuzzled his throat again. Stiles brought his arms around him and hugged Peter closer, letting him settle more closely between his spread legs. 

He was kissing his side of the face until Peter looked up at him. He smiled down blindingly at him, just happy. 

Suddenly, he was once again in Peter’s arms, being carried somewhere. Stiles did not mind even a bit. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he said and lightly bit his jaw. “But let me clean their scents off of you first.” 

Stiles’ breath hitched once again. Peter was taking care of him and it felt like his heart was about to burst. No one had ever done that for him, no one. 

“I will get you clean, and warm, and  _mine.”_ Peter was rumbling on and Stiles thought that he wanted that as well. 

 

Stiles woke up feeling hot. Too hot. 

His head was pounding, his skin felt clammy, his insides were turning and he felt  _sick._  

“P-pe..,” he tried to call but immediately leaned to the right and threw up all over the floor. He then fell back onto the sheets, his arms splayed over the bed, exhausted. He closed his eyes quickly to calm down the head rush. He then looked around, panting and found that he was not alone, although, not with the one he expected. 

“Flo?” he croaked out loud. He turned his head slowly and squinted. 

The other Stiles looked awful. He was leaning on the wall, his hands crossed, glowering at Stiles. He had dark circles under his eyes, his skin was sickly pale, he had bruises and scratches all over his collar as if he was mauled. 

“ ** _About fucking time you woke up,”_** he snarled. 

His voice ringed unpleasantly in Stiles’ head and he groaned. 

 ** _“You fucking moron!”_** Flo roared and Stiles tried to cover his ears, the voice was resonating in his head so painfully.  

 _Where’s Peter?_ Stiles thought. He tried to look around but the lights almost blinded him so he hid behind his face in the pillow, groaning miserably.  _What the fuck is going on?_  

 ** _“I tried to warn you! But did you listen?”_** Flo kept snarling.  ** _“No! You thought with your dick and look where it brought you! You miserable empty-headed no good idiot!”_**  

And with that, he dramatically left the room. 

Stiles sighed into the pillow, and after he had gathered some courage, turned over again and slowly sat up. He looked around. He then listened. He tried to feel the space out with magic only to get a hammering headache to return. Despite that, he was pretty sure he was alone in the apartment. Peter had left. 

He squinted to his left and found the lamp that was damaging his sight. He quickly turned it off. He then realized that it was dark outside, but not fully into the night yet. He must’ve been asleep an hour or two, tops. But where did Peter go? 

“ _Flo?”_ he mentally called out.  _“ Wh-what’s going on? Why the fuck do I feel like I was hit by a truck?”_  

Flo appeared right in front of him in a blink. He was mad as hell. 

 ** _“What’s going on, he asks,”_** he mocks,  ** _“Ask your precious Peter about it.”_**  

Stiles frowned. It did not make a shred of sense. 

“ _Why are you so mad?”_  

Stiles then looked around, looking for his clothes. He did not find them, and considering the state they were in, it was for the best. What he found though was a neatly folded pile of clothes sitting on the leather chair in the corner. He swung his legs to the left and sat up, closing his eyes at the head rush. 

 **_“You were asleep for two days!”_ **  

At that, his eyes flew open.  _Two days?_  He was confused and lost, and his head was killing him. 

 _“It can’t be,”_ he denied feebly. Then he stood up, wobbled a little and went for clothes. They were all black: a t-shirt, a hoodie, jeans, underwear, socks, and even sneakers. All in his size. All new. Probably courtesy of Peter. Stiles blushed. 

He got dressed as quickly as he could, supporting himself against the wall and then turned to look at the other self, who was still glaring daggers at him. 

 ** _“Are you an idiot?”_**  he spit out.  ** _“I’ve been pacing here all this time, two sunrises have passed, and I still couldn’t wake you up! Your spark was dead to the world, just as you were. I was out of my mind and now you dismiss me?”_**  

Stiles’ eyes widened. But it couldn’t be. But Flo said it was so it definitely was. He immediately tried to feel his bond only to find unreachable. It was still there, tingling with distress and worry, but Stiles could not touch it, could not communicate, he was completely cut off. 

 ** _“It will come back soon,”_** and when Stiles just looked at him blankly, he continued,  ** _“your magic.”_**  

Stiles’ eyes widened in horror. He immediately raised his hand and tried to conjure a fireball. What appeared was a small flickering flame. And at even that little trick his head protested. 

Something was wrong. Something was so fucking wrong that Stiles felt nauseous again. 

 _“What’s wrong with me?”_  

Other Stiles’ mouth curled up in disgust,  ** _“Isn’t it obvious? Peter poisoned you.”_**  

All the air rushed out of him. He stumbled back, gripping the chair hard, trying to centre himself.  

 _“No,”_ he whispered, shaking his head. Flo didn’t respond. 

 _No,_ Stiles thought again.  _No, no, no, no._ This couldn’t be happening. Peter wouldn’t do that, after everything, after they… 

 **_“After you what, Stiles? Have known each other for two days?”_ **  

The silence reigned. 

….But Peter looked so broken when Stiles rejected him. He was so worried about him. He ran into the burning building for him. He took care of him. He called him ‘his’. 

They had sex.  

And apparently, somewhere in between, he drugged him. 

The water. The water he practically poured down his throat. He was such a fucking idiot.

Stiles slowly slid down the wall onto the floor and hugged his knees, feeling a bitter coal of betrayal burning through his soul. 

But he trusted him. He had trusted him. And Peter…. 

His heart was out of control. His face grew hot, his hands shaking; tears were coming to his eyes and he found it hard to breathe. 

“Why?” he chocked out miserably. Why did he do that? Was he pretending to care? Was he pretending all this time? But he couldn’t have, he looked so genuine, he couldn’t have…And yet he poisoned him. And left him here for two whole days. And something was wrong with his magic. 

Stiles let out a chocked out ugly sob and promptly broke down. 

It was too much. 

He couldn’t understand. He did not understand a thing.  _Why, why, why_ , kept ringing in his head. Why did he to that? Why him?  

A wave of calm suddenly rushed over him and Stiles wiped his face. He could interact with the bond again, and, apparently, so did Jackson. 

He stood up on shaky legs as he felt that the werewolf was coming closer to his position. He was still a mile or two away, but he was steadily and surely getting closer. 

Stiles sighed in relief. Jackson was safe. Jackson never betrayed him. Jackson will be here soon. 

He took a deep breath in and promptly choked on it. Smoke, he smelled smoke. He went to the window then only to see a deep smog hindering the view. 

 _“What’s going on?”_ he asked immediately but Flo only shook his head and lead him out of the apartment. 

They stepped out of the building and Stiles gasped in horror. The building next to him was on fire. 

He stepped away, onto the road, to see the row of apartments better and saw every building leading to the centre of the town, as far as he could see, was burning too. It was a wonder it never reached the forest across the road. 

Peter’s apartment building was the last one of the complexes and also the last one intact. Luckily for Stiles of course. 

There were no people on the street as far as he could see. He did not hear any calls for help either. It was a remote part of the town so Stiles hoped that not many people lived there and those who did already got out. There were no firetrucks or paramedics.  

He looked in the general direction of the town and realized, that this part was not the only one burning. There were dozens of smokes on the horizon. 

 _“What happened here?”_ he asked Flo, strangled. 

 ** _“I don’t know,”_**  was the answer. “ ** _I was trapped in the apartment just like you were…but I have a guess.”_**  

Stiles thought he had a guess too and it made him sick. 

Hunters. What the fuck have they been doing these past two days? 

He suddenly felt a strong tug at his bond from the direction of the forest and he immediately turned towards it. It was not a pleasant tug. Jackson was warning him, he was distressed. 

Trouble was coming his way and it had Jackson. 

Stiles rolled his shoulders and reached for his magic. The permitted level of it was almost refilled. He was ready for anything. 

He took a deep breath in and the anger flooded his lungs as he exhaled. 

He trusted Peter and he betrayed him. He drugged him. And because of that, Jackson was in trouble.  

He should’ve stayed with him, his guilt piped in. He should’ve never chosen Peter, a stranger, over his familiar, over his pack mate. 

He was conflicted inside but he was ready to face anything. 

Imagine his surprise, when from the forest walked out the Sheriff with an alpha werewolf, Deputy Derek Hale, who was holding Jackson, and, finally, Peter. 

Electricity sparked dangerously in his hands as he looked at Jackson and Derek bared his teeth at him. As if he even stood a chance, that idiot. 

“Ah, we finally found you,” purred Peter, and it sounded wrong, so wrong, “ the man who brought hunters into our town and helped them burn half of it.” 


	15. When A Banshee Screams For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So about a few weeks ago, I was like 2k words in the new chapter, ready to pull out the big guns, reveal (almost) all the secrets, because it was TIME FOr THEM TO FIND OUT (ha ha), for Stiles, and Peter, and the Sheriff, and Jackson, and you, of course, my dear readers, - and then, I thought that, no, there is something I have to tell, to show you first before the big reveal. So I saved that draft and started a new one.  
> And it took me too fucking long to finish because I reached 3k and just - nothing. I knew the plan, I knew what had to be written but just... It wasn't being written how I wanted it to.  
> But then I thought - I've been making you wait a whole month. It's really unfair.  
> And I really wanted to move on and far away from this chapter.  
> So here we are, with a 7k monstrosity.
> 
> Also! Thank you very much for your comments! I've been receiving one every week, and they were nudging me, reminding me that there's someone who's reading this story, someone who's waiting for the next chapter and because of you - Ta-DA! Chapter 15!  
> I really hope you like it.
> 
> It's not exactly what you expected, but it will clear some things up.

 And Jackson stood there. He just stood there and let his best friend, his only friend, his pack be taken away from him. 

What was even worse, Stiles  _chose_  to leave him. To leave with Peter. A fucking stranger. 

So Jackson just stood there, before the entrance of the station. Sad, disappointed, devastated, worried. And, finally, simply lost. 

This had never happened before. Not the feelings, but Stiles leaving him behind. He thought this day would never come, thought that Stiles was different – and he was! Wasn’t he? 

Jackson cringed in uncertainty. He hoped he did not whine. Staring brokenly at the ground was fine though. 

A door opened. But what made his head really snap up was the smell of a man coming through it. He had never thought that he would be able to recognise family just by smell since he had never met them as a werewolf. 

His father mirrored his expression of stunned shock when their eyes locked. Although, his father, unlike him, was pleased at the encounter.  

He started making steps towards him. Jackson kept making them back. His father did not take the hint, therefore forcing Jackson to bark a harsh, “Stop it!” 

His father stopped. He did not falter, he did not look as if he was told to stop. He looked as if it was of his own volition, as if he was in control of everything around him. He could not help but despise and admire him at the same time. For the control he had over his body, that’s all. 

“Jackson,” his father said with a small smile on his lips. For him, it was a substitute for a beam. “You came back. What a pleasant surprise. Please come with me, your mother already has a lunch prepared, I’m sure it will be enough for the two of us.” 

He stretched out his hand as if trying to stir him where he needed. Jackson could only look at him incredulously. The man before him behaved as if he was not missing for five  _years_. 

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” he channelled his best Stiles bitch face. 

“Jackson, don’t be ridiculous. We have not been sure you even were alive. Three years you made us worry, Jackson. The least you can do is explain yourself and apologise.” 

His father was looking at him sternly and suddenly Jackson felt as if he was twelve and was late from school. But he was no longer in charge of him, not for the longest of times. If anyone was, it would be Stiles. 

So he let the tension out by slowly exhaling. There, the parental shackles falling away. 

“What do you mean three years?” He stared at his father in befuddlement. 

“You didn't honestly believe we would just let you roam unsupervised in your little teen rebellion? A private investigator was keeping an eye on you, of course. When you have drunk away all our money and pawned everything you owned and steeped so low as to live on the streets, we were going to pick you up and drag back home. After all, it is unbecoming of Whittemores’.” His father trailed off and let out an extremely composed and haughty huff. “Unfortunately, that fool let you out of his sight and could not find you after. We hired two more and yet none of them was able to locate you. Neither dead, nor alive." 

Jackson looked stunned and confused. They cared? They looked? But why? He was, after all, not even their son.  

Adopted. 

Another piece of intriguing news was that Stiles’s wards actually worked. They genuinely, successfully worked. And not only against magic users and creatures but muggles as well. 

_“_ _Those who look will not find. Neither of us,”_ Stiles would always assure him. A fond Smile tugged at his lips and he lowered his head to hide it. 

_“_ It was none of your business,” he said stubbornly, cringing internally at how cruel he was. Stiles would swat his arm and make him apologise. He would not be harsh with him though, for he always excused Jackson’s behaviour, saying that he could relate to having daddy issues. And then Jackson would do the swatting. Asshole. 

_“Jackson,”_ his father said admonishingly, making Jackson feel small. It was ridiculous how he could do that with just one word. 

_“_ Stop, dad,” Jackson said, growing a spine. “Look, if you’re so interested, I’m fine. I have almost finished my degree, have a part-me job at the district attorney’s office, and most importantly, I have my pack, I have a best-friend who will always keep me safe. There.” 

Jackson doubted he behaved so awkwardly in the past years. It was undignified, as his father would say. 

“I am very pleased you followed my footsteps, son. Although it confuses me as for why would you need a pack...” he started all pleased with himself but was quickly shut up when Jackson flashed his eyes at him. 

His father was so wide-eyed it made him laugh. Almost. Well, inside. 

“When did this..” his father did not manage to finish a sentence. Perhaps it was the first time he did that without any excuse of being interrupted. A child inside him cheered in smugness. 

And did Jackson want to tell him? No, probably not. It was, after all, a horrific experience to relieve, especially without Stiles by his side. 

“It doesn’t mater, okay? I’m a werewolf, I have a pack, I’m stable. I’m…I’m happy alright? So tell mother not to worry.” 

It was weird. Reassuring his parent was weird. After all, he had never thought he would ever see them again. He never wanted a reunion. Even a social creature of a wolf inside him did not seem eager to learn about his kin. 

Taking advantage of his father’s stunned and somewhat heartbroken look, Jackson did not even dare to think what it was about for he was afraid to have his heart broken twice that day, he bid him goodbye and made a hasty retreat. 

His father did not call after him. 

 

First thing Jackson did was going into the nearby store. He was pleasantly surprised to find wolfsbane laced whiskey. It was a bit pricy but to hell with it, it was a horrible day altogether and he would not be surprised if it was only going to get worse. But while he had a break, he felt he really needed to get drunk and mope a bit. However  _unbecoming_ that was. What a fucking joke. 

He closed the door of his hotel room with his foot while simultaneously trying to open the bottle. A glass hit the table, whiskey was poured. And then the second. And then the third. And then he was pleasantly falling down the bed, his thoughts chased away by the buzzing fog. 

 

_He is cold. That thought is constantly on his mind. Not that he is hungry, or that he smells, or that_ _he_ _hasn’t washed his hair for at least a week._  

_He is cold and no amount of warm clothes can do the job of keeping him warm._ _He blam_ _es_ _the holes._  

_He was once again_ _kicked out from the barrels with fire in the alley._ _Another bunch of hags was unhappy with him for being young and pretty yet homeless._ _Last time he was chased away because he refused to be rented._ _He was so enraged by such an offer he jumped at the closest guy and started clawing at his face._ _The guy did a lot of damage to Jackson but those were only bruises and sprains. Jackson though,_ _he_ _damaged his face. He was then running for his life because, apparently, now the guy wouldn’t be able to work and it was Jackson’s fault. He did not dare to show his face in that part of town again._  

_So now he is here. Alone. Again. As always. And once again cold and fucking miserable._  

_He hat_ _es_ _it. He hate_ _s_ _the streets, he hate_ _s_ _the rags he ha_ _s_ _on, he hate_ _s_ _the dirt he_ _is_ _covered in; he hate_ _s_ _that he nee_ _ds_ _things and he_ _is_ _not_ _simply_ _given them. He hat_ _es_ _not having the money. He hate_ _s_ _his parents. For everything. He hate_ _s_ _people, as it seem_ _s_ _, in general._  

_He hate_ _s_ _being alone. He hate_ _s_ _being so openly disliked._  

_He hate_ _s_ _being cold._  

_He wanders at night, having no idea where to go, having no destination. Yet he prides himself on not hitting the lowest of the low._  

_Although, late at night, he sometimes wonders, if that would be so bad. Daylight, luckily, chases those thoughts away._  

_He finds an abandoned building which somewhat resembles a distillery_ _but how the fuck would he know, a factory is a factory. It’s damp and bare and his footsteps make echoes that in turn make him cringe. But it’s empty and it provides a cover from the snow so having no strength to look for something else – although, who is he kidding, the_ _re_ _is_ nothing  _else, at least nothing better than this_  - _he settles._  

_He fishes out his little square space grey iPod, the only thing he kept from his things, but finds it blinking red, alerting him of a low battery. He turns it off and puts it back. If there was a fire_ _,_ _he could probably get out a book he has. It’s a dictionary on law and it was the only book no one wanted so he took it. He has already read it twice but he doesn’t mind. Today he_ _is not in mood though, for anything._  

_Making a fire is too risky. He decides to sleep first, and then make one. If he is kicked out then at least he will be rested._  

_So he settles against the wall and dozes. In the recent months he learned to be a light sleeper._ _He manages to dream. It’s lasts_ _too_ _little. There_ _,_ _he is in his own bed. Warm and safe._  

_He jerks awake as he is roughly pulled up._ _He startles and tries to struggle, trying to apologise and bargain._ _But then_ _feels sharp pain_ _to the head_ _in the middle of him negotiating and he looses consciousness._  

_When he comes to it he is_ _bound and gagged, sitting in the same hallway he slept in, only now in the middle._ _He sees four people, dressed in black, riffles over their shoulders, guns and daggers at their belts._ _They seem to be happily bantering._  

_Jackson shakes in terror. Was he found by the_ _pimp of that boy whose face he damaged? Had he stolen from a gang member and did not realise? Or is it the trafficking ring that is at large?_  

_He does not know what is worse so he focuses on his breathing. He flinches out of his little bubble of peace and safety he was trying so naively to make when he hears a bark of laughter from a man in black. The other one shushes him urgently and they all fall silent. Then, eerily s_ _imultaneous they turn to look at him. Jackson’s heart jumps into his throats and he does his best not to shake in sheer terror._  

_The leader steps closer to him, with others flanking him a step behind. The man squats in front of him and plays with a small but very sharp looking knife while looking straight at him. If he_ _pulls out_ _an apple Jackson might laugh. It will end badly for him but come_ on _._  

_“I’m very sorry, boy,_ _” the man says not sounding sincere at all and Jackson knows that if he survives the night then this voice will haunt him for years to come,  “_ _but it seems that_ _you will not survive the night.”_  

_Jackson jerks back yet it is fruitless._ _His mind is trying to frantically process everything that is going on. Was he injected with something? Is he now mortally Ill? Or  maybe, maybe they just want his organs._  

_He does not know that to think. He prays it is none of the above. He cannot say a thing. He shakes. He stares._  

_“It could be anyone, really,” the man waves his knife around nonchalantly, his voice light and unperturbed, “boy or a girl, any age, really. You are just a bait. And we are sure that the wolf will happily come to get a bite out of you.”_  

_His heart is beating so out of control he fears for his health. Although, apparently, there is no need because these assholes are sacrificing him to some fucking beast!_  

_“Alphas. What a joy it is putting them down. You should be honoured, boy. You will help us make this world better.”_  

_Jackson has no desire_ _to do_ _that._ _He has no idea what the man_ _is_ _talking about but he knows for sure that he wants no part in it._  

_“So you just…sit tight, yeah, kid?_ _It all will end very soon,” the man smiles at him and stands up. Jackson tries to scream after him, to move, but the gag is so deep and the rope is so tight it’s a hopeless ambition._ _He is desperate though so he tries, again and again._  

_He does not see the fist coming. He_ _falls_ _back and sees the hunter_ _leaning over_ _him, fuming._  

_“Shut the fuck up and stop making a fool of yourself,” he bark_ _s_ _. And Jackson_ _is_ _so stunned that he d_ _oes_ _just that._ _"Now get up. Up!" He orde_ _rs_ _and Jackson obey_ _s_ _, sitting up, still shaking._  

_And then they le_ _ave_ _. All of them. Disappear_ _ing_ _into the night. Hiding. Waiting for the beast to come._  

_And Jackson_ _is_ _left alone, sitting there, bound and gagged and paralysed_ _; scared_ _out of his mind and_ _baffled_ _at how they got a drop on him in the first place._  

_Although, it doesn’t matter now, does it? They did and_ _now here he is._ _Pathetic, helpless. And dirty._ _He will meet his death today and all he worries about is that he will do so being dirty._  

_The building is quiet around him. No whispers, no movement; not even a scrap of shoes._  

_All he can hear is his own beating heart and small puffs of air he lets out and it’s deafening._  

_He tries to listen_ _and yet it is quiet around him._  

_He doesn’t know how long he sits there, how long it takes the fear to lax its hold over him and let him start drifting into the sleep._  

_He doesn’t know how long it’s been but when the first sound rings in the air, he flinches. He flinches hard and now he is alert and wide-eyed, and realises that it is starting to lighten around, the window at the end of the hallway with no_ _glass is like a dampened lamp lets him know of a sudden change._ _There are no rays of sunshine and there won’t be for a while but it’s lighter still and he can make out the walls around him and the thought is comforting._  

_The first sound he hears is_ _a long, powerful howl._ _It is angry and it gets louder with every second, as if_ _it_ _s_ _source is coming closer. It sounds_ _distorted_ _and wrong and it shakes Jackson to the core._  

_Is this the beast? Is this_ _what those men are fishing for? Those_ hunters. 

_He hears a crash and walls around him shake. He tries to be bra_ _ve_ _and face it like a man but in reality he barely restrains from pissing himself._  

_He hears the thing prowling a corridor away. It’s sniffing like a hound, and snarls, then growls and prowls again. He can hear the long claws hitting the concrete, its deliberate steps._  

_Something huge and inhuman steps around the corner and it overshadows the window, denying the corridor it’s light. It’s pitch black and all Jackson can see is a pair of red glowing eyes._  

_He shakes and tries to scream and move back, away, just away from this thing. He wants to run but he is bound and he cannot get out. He cannot do anything, he is at mercy of anyone who comes for him._  

_The thing, the_ alpha,  _as they called it, suddenly stops and sniffs the air_ _audibly_ _. Jackson holds_ _his_ _breath_ _,_ _wishing_ _for it to be enough._  

_It’s not._  

_The alpha roars and charges at Jackson._  

_Next is pain, pain is all he can feel, he is in pain, he is pressed into the floor, and he can feel teeth in his side, as if it’s trying to rip him apart, and it hurts so much Jackson wishes he would pass out._  

_He doesn’t though._  

_The alpha doesn’t finish it’s job either and takes its teeth out of Jackson’s flesh._ _Jackson tries to double over and cover himself but the alpha presses its claws into him and Jackson screams in pain._  

_It bends over him and starts licking the wound in his side, and Jackson flinches in disgust. Tears sting his eyes and he wishes he was dead. He closes his eyes tight, not wishing to see it_ _up_ _close. It’s not human though, that is clear._  

_He doesn’t know what happens next but the alpha suddenly turns around and fucking roars. He guesses it feels the threat of hunters. The assholes are here then. He wishes for them to tear each other fucking apart._  

_The alpha then turns its back on them and crouches over Jackson as if protecting him. He can hear shells hitting the ground and knows that they are being shot at._  

_The alpha the_ _n_ _picks him up, and Jackson tries not to focus on what kind of hands or paws are holding him, and then it starts running, forward and forward until it finds a window and jumps._  

_Fresh air is the first thing he registers. Then the cold ground. Then the rough bark of a tree._  

_The monster, no, no, the wolf, the overlarge and unnatural looking wolf with glowing eyes, that stands_ _on_ _two feet and is at least twice as big as Jackson, flicks it claws and suddenly, Jackson is free of ropes and he spits out the gag._  

_He doesn’t know what to say though. He looks at the beast before him and it looks back_ _, flickers of intelligence in its eyes._ _It crouches slowly and slinks slowly forward. It nuzzles his ankle and Jackson flinches involuntary. The alpha huffs and the_ _n_ _bounds away._  

_Jackson is once again alone. He is in the woods now, the ones that bordered the factory. He can even still see it._  

_He feels a dull throb in his side and lifts up the layers of clothing. It’s_ _a_ _bloody bite and he feels sick just from looking at it._  

_The full moon illuminates the forest and Jackson thinks that it must be a sign._  

_He hears more gunshots and a roar. He hears more of each over the next few minutes. Shouting, and snarling, and crashing,_ _scruffling_ _and then – it’s quiet. He hears a_ _raucous  laughter_ _and someone shoots in the sky in victory. Fire flickers in the distance._  

_Jackson knows the wolf is dead now. The hunters have won._  

_He hears them cheering and starts trying to_ _crawl_ _away, in the opposite direction._ _His body is stiff and sore, his hands shake in fear. He’s cold, so cold, he’s chilled to the bone. Snow burns at his fingers and he slips, falling to his elbows with a pained groan._  

_He raises his head and sees a pair of_ _black_ _combat boots in_ _front of him. He looks up and sees the hunter leader with a rifle on his shoulder._  

_He is suddenly kicked in the bite on his torso and he_ _falls_ _on his back with a strangled shout, hands flying to cradle his side and cover it from any future pain._  

_He’s surrounded then. All four of them stand around him, looking at him, bloodied but satisfied and smug about_ _themselves. Jackson doesn’t think that the wolf was the feral one._  

_Jackson gulps nervously. “You got what you wanted,_ _th_ _-that_ _beast. Now let me go.”_  

_“Oh, kid,” the leader says and shakes his head pitifully, “you don’t get it, do you.”_  

_Jackson tries to shuffle away but they circled him. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”_  

_No one would believe him anyway. He just want_ _s_ _out, out, right now._  

_“It bit you,” says another man and spits blood to the side. “Come morning, and_ you _will be the beast. We are doing you a favour, really.”_  

_He pulls out a big_ _,_ _sharp_ _-_ _looking knife and_ _holds it as if ready to stab Jackson at any moment._  

_And he is, he is ready to do that, and not because he is a potential witness but because he apparently was infected_ _._  

_“_ _Then help me! You did this to me!” He snarled at them, feigning bravery he did not feel. “Cure me!”_  

_“That thing did this to you,” the leader denies. “And we plan on saving you, don’t worry. This is a way of release.” He gestured at another hunter and Jackson tried to stand and run, only to be tripped and kicked back to the ground._  

_“No,” he gasps, “please, don’t.”_  

_He sounds so pitiful right now, he thinks, but street life has kicked most of his pride out of him and it won’t show up any time soon, especially when he is about to die._  

_But his words_ _feal_ _on deaf ears. And not because they are not listening to him, although, that too, but because they are not even looking at him._  

_“Hold it!” The leader exclaims. Silence falls then. “What a pretty boy like_ _you’s_ _doing here?” He leers at someone and Jackson feels sick._  

_He twists and turns and then he sees who they are talking about – it’s a guy, about his age, pale as snow, brown hair with matching eyes, and deep circles under his eyes. He is shivering violently because he is standing only in a red hoodie, no coat._  

_Jackson tires to shift his body to the side, with a future possibility of crawling away, hoping, that maybe this idiot will be distraction long enough._  

_“You are the Malcolm hunting family, aren’t you?”_ _Ask they guy, his voice serene. He looks tired and sleep-deprived and Jackson has no idea what’s going on._  

_The hunter immediately sobers and straightens. “Who are you?” He asks suspiciously._  

_“_ _The Crane Clan,” the guy responds calmly as if he is not facing four trigger happy men._  

_They lower their guns_ _and relax. Jackson abandons all hope._  

_“What are you doing here? Did they send you to check on us? We did everything perfectly. The wolf is dead.”_  

_“Dead,” the new guy repeats hollowly_ _and falls silent._ _Hunters stare at each other in silence, momentary stunned by confusion._  

_And then, the_ _new_ _guy, who looks close to toppling over from exhaustion, starts_ babbling. 

_“_ _So you decided it would be wise to kill the last remaining_ _survivor of the Rockwell pack?_ _You do realise that even_ _the C_ _ouncil itself claimed to_ _have him under_ _their protection?_ _Rockwells_ _have held this territory for centuries_ _and had many useful resources in their vaults to the supernatural community as well as the hunter clans both. Killing the last remaining wolf meant ending the bloodline which also meant cutting off the access to these vaults…not talking about how_ wrong  _and_ immoral  _it was to hunt him down_ _.”_  

_Jackson froze in hope. The new guy was not on the hunters’ side apparently._  

_Four man froze as well and tensed_ _._  

_“He was just another monster, kid. You of all people should know_ _,” the leader sneered._  

_“He never killed in cold blood,” the pale guy said_ _and flinched with no apparent reason._  

_The hunter growls and quickly steps right up in the face of the guy, trying to loom over him and intimidate him in silence, to cover his sins. The pale guy did not even blink at the threat._  

_“I don’t know what you’re doing here, kid,” the leader sa_ _ys_ _dangerously, “but you’d better leave and keep your mouth shut about this before we burry you in the ground next to this guy, Crane or not.”_  

_Jackson sees him gesturing to him and he starts to panic once again._  

_“What did he do?” The guy asks, looking more and more awake and aware of what is going on._  

_“He is Rockwell’s beta,” he says as if it explained everything._  

_“Hey!” Jackson exclaims, throwing caution to the_ _wind. “I didn’t even know him! You just grabbed me and bound me and left like a present for the wolf to maul!”_  

_Jackson does not know where or who the hit comes from, but suddenly it is very hard to breathe while someone is hissing ‘shut up’ in his ear._  

_“You used an innocent human as bait?” The new guy’s voice now sounds dangerous_ _._  

_“You’ve been warned, kid, leave or pay the price. Take the beta now,” he turns his back on the kid and the other two suddenly grab Jackson, dragging him away. He imagines they are taking him to the body of the alpha, to bury them in one grave or to equally burn them. He is forced to turn and sees that the fire they set far away has spread and is now just a tree line away. Jackson tries to get out of their grip, scared out of his mind._  

_“You started a forest fire,” the guy says,_ _sounding angry and sad at the same time._  

_It happens fast then._  

_The leader pulls his handgun and aims at the guy, but Jackson doesn’t see him after because he is yanked forward. He struggles and the hunters yelp and Jackson falls to the ground. He covers his head, expecting a hit to the head but it never comes._  

_He_ _peeks_ _from his hands and sees that the forest is no longer on fire. He tentatively looks up and around and – there are no hunters anymore, as if they were never even here. He tries to sit, and looks around and sees only trees and the stricken looking guy, who stares in mute shock at the ground where the hunters previously stood._  

_“Wh-where did they go?” Jackson asks, trying to stand up. “Did I pass out?” That would be the only explanation because in just only a second the hunters and the fire disappeared._  

_“Are you hurt?” The guy asks him instead. He looks even paler than before._  

_Jackson then looks down at his shirt and tugs it up. The bite is gone._  

_“He, he bit me but…I don’t understand, it’s gone, how can it be gone?”_  

_Jackson panics and the guy tells him that he is werewolf now. After such a bizarre proclamation, he walks to the trees and starts talking to them, promising to come back tomorrow, when he is ‘recharged’, whatever that means, promising to help them, to heal them. Jackson thinks that he is nuts until a glowing orb appears in his hands, which he puts into a tree. And then it is not blackened and charred anymore, it looks healthy and unharmed._  

_Apparently, supernatural is real, magic is real, and so are… werewolves. And he is one of them now._  

_The guy stands then, motionless, and looks tired even more than before._  

_“I’m Jackson,” he says, feeling awkward._  

_“Da-,” he cuts himself off and with a scrunched up expression says, “Stiles. Call me Stiles.”_  

_And then he turns and starts walking away._  

_Jackson suddenly panics, watching as his only source of the supernatural world, the only one he knew who knew what_ _was_ _going to happen to him, about his bite, walking away. He is going to leave and Jackson…he can’t let that happen._ _So_ _he follows. He isn’t sure if he can stop him, four scary hunters couldn’t so why would Jackson? Anyways, the guy looks too tired to even move, not talking about answering questions._ _So_ _he follows him, he follows this Stiles home, like a dog (Stiles pointed out the irony for him a few days later and Jackson did not laugh.)_  

_As he follows he thinks how If Stiles wanted to, he would’ve stopped him from following him or just disappeared himself. After all, he has just vanished four people. So if he wants to get rid of Jackson, he is capable of just that. But he lets him follow so Jackson does just that._  

_They walk into the two-bedroom apartment and Stiles immediately goes to another room and falls face first into the bed, falling asleep when his face hits the mattress._  

_Jackson closes the door and goes to sit on the couch. Like a kicked dog._  

_He does not snoop around. A thought that Stiles would know nags at him and keeps him seated._  

_He burrows into the couch instead, happy to have a warm and safe place to sleep_ _._  

_On the next day he asks Stiles about the second room_ _, if anyone lives there._ _Stiles says_ _that he can have it if he wants._  

_This is the most generous and selfless gesture he has witnessed in his entire life._  

_He doesn’t tell Stiles that he has no money. He probably knows it anyway, considering that all that Jackson had on him when he came into the apartment were his tattered clothes. He vows to pay him back._  

_Jackson knows that he’s been selfish and highfalutin his whole life. And now he will learn how to be grateful_ _._  

_A day later, when he finally shows claws and looses control, he learns words ‘loyalty’ and ‘pack’._ _When he tears half of Stiles’ apartment apart_ _and barely holds himself together because now Stiles will show him the door for sure, he receives the gift of a bon_ _d. He learns what ‘anchor’ truly means._  

_Only a month later he realises that he never even had a proper freak out about the_ _existence of supernatural. He shrugs and goes back to preparing dinner for the two of them, utterly content._  

 

Jackson woke up with his claws out and eyes glowing. He automatically looked to where Stiles was supposed to be and deflated when he realised that he was alone in the room. 

He groaned and tried to cover his eyes. He cursed in his head profusely, mostly everything directed at Peter. That motherfucker. Alpha-snatcher. Asshole. 

Whatever. 

He let his hands fall to his sides and just stared at the ceiling. The bond was closed off again. In all the years Stiles had only done that at night and only for a few minutes, not to stress Jackson. And now, since he came to BH, it was almost always shut down. 

He groaned again at the pain pulsing in his temples and turned around, face finding a pillow and snuggling into it.  

He tied to let it all go, once again, to relax. 

And then a woman screamed in panic somewhere down the hall and he flinched. He quickly sat up in alarm and strained his hearing. 

He flinched once again at the gunshots and men shouting. 

It was happening again. They came to the diner first, and now they were here. 

Jackson, having no weapon but himself, rushed outside and barely got away before getting shot. People were running in corridors in panic. Those who could fought the hunters.  Jackson, without another thought, jumped into the fray. 

He fought alongside werewolves he did not know and other creatures he did not recognise, all shifted. Some had long piranha like teeth, some had their faces transformed into ones of the bird. There was a woman in the corner, chanting a spell. Jackson did not know what she was doing until when he got shot and the bullet bounced back from him as in magic. When that happened a few more times and to other people, hunters started targeting her and Jackson readily stood at her protection, tearing his teeth into anyone who came close. 

They were fighting, herded together, trying to push them out into the main hall, and then out of the hotel. 

Neither side was winning. There were more of hunters than supers, but the second ones were more vicious and deadly, even without guns. 

He heard someone whistle then and the hunters run. Those who fought alongside him did not relax. 

A grenade flew in through the window and they all dove to the floor away from it, covering their eyes and ears, the most sensitive areas. 

Jackson covered the witch but she still passed out from the impact. Static rang in his ears, his eyes and nose burned. His body was trying to heal any burns and broken bones. 

He was the only one to stand up, Stiles’ magic keeping him safe even from afar. 

Only about three people were conscious and struggling to get up. 

That’s when he smelled the fire. 

Those assholes, it seemed, had only one scheme – find a crowded place, shoot who they could, torch the place. Although this time, they were all outside. 

Jackson took off his Jacket and pressed it to his face. He walked over to the witch, determined to pay his debt. He took her in his arms and went for the exit, hoping that someone had already notified the police and the fire department. 

He did not manage to make a step. Once near the window, he was shot so he quickly ducked back, cursing silently. 

He saw a beta werewolf looking at him, her eyes glowing. She looked like she would never give up. 

Jackson placed the witch on the floor, finding a place free of glass. 

Hunters were waiting for them outside, ready to shoot anyone who tried to come out. The fire was slowly spreading from the other part of the building, herding them all to the front. 

If they went back, the would burn. If they went forward, they’d get shot. 

He looked at the beta again and then to the floor, where dead bodies were laying with rifles in their lax grips. He looked up at the beta again. They nodded to each other and quickly dove to the ground after weapons. 

Stiles once showed him the basics, claiming that even thought he was a werewolf, he had to know what his enemy was using and how to turn it against him. 

He recharged and pressed himself to the wall behind the window, noting how the beta did the same from the other side of it. 

A round was shot into the outside wall and Jackson flinched, hunching in on himself. He then heard them recharge. It was a perfect moment. They were ready to strike and fight for their lives. 

And then the scream rang out.  

The beta doubled over, covering her ears as did the others who were conscious. Jackson peered out and saw that the hunters where affected as well. 

He felt bad for taking this opportunity. But only for a second. 

He took a hand gun in his other hand and walked out the front door – go big or go home. 

He started shooting in one volley, aiming at the legs and wherever he could. 

In a minute it was over. 

Heart beating mad in his chest from taking down six hunters that were ready to execute any person walking out of the hotel, he looked around, looking for the source of the scream. For Lydia. 

He saw her at the corner of the hotel, unsteady on her legs, eyes vacant. He dropped both guns and ran to her immediately. 

“Lydia,” he shook her and she did not respond. 

He heard sirens coming closer and that beta leaping out from the house and descending upon the hunters, ripping their throats out and limbs off with vengeance, finishing Jackson’s job. He saw people starting getting out of the hotel, dragging themselves, and, who could, others out. 

Jackson turned to a Lydia and hugged her closely to him. Despite everything, he still cared about her. He inhaled her scent deeply, looking for any wounds and finding none. 

“Jackson,” she whispered, suddenly shaking in his arms. “Get me out of here. Death, so much death…I can’t stand it. Take me where it’s quite, please, please, Jackson, the death, the death…” 

Jackson immediately scooped her in his arms, carrying her princess stile and dashed into the forest, getting away from all the commotion and smoke and death. 

He ran and ran and ran until he couldn't hear anything no longer. He stopped in the woods and took a deep breath in, trying to calm his nerves and figure out where he was. 

He started walking south and in a few minutes he found what he hoped was still there – a tree house he and Lydia once found when they where kinds.  

He scaled the tree easily, even with Lydia in his arms and was pleased to see a small sofa that they put there together when in high school. 

He gently put Lydia down on it and sat on the floor against the wall opposite her. 

He silently watched her sleep, taking in every little detail.  

She looked like she didn’t age a day, despite how tired she looked. Strawberry blond hair in the intricate braid, short dress and heels – even in case of emergency. Jackson smiled to himself. 

He never understood how it could be comfortable, how could she wear these clothes everyday, come rain or snow or, apparently, fire. 

He longed to touch her, to hold her hand, to hug her and hold her tight, making sure she was alright.  

He didn’t. 

He just watched her sleeping. And fell asleep himself, lulled by her heartbeat. 

 

For the second time in hours, he woke up with a flinch. This time, however, he was not alone. 

Lydia did not move, although she was awake, her eyes open and staring at Jackson. 

They eyed each other, neither looking away, neither closing the distance. 

“I missed you,” she whispered and Jackson closed his eyes, thinking of the unfairness of it all. 

“Well, you brought it on yourself,” he said, feeling vindictive and immediately winced at her dismayed expression, regretting his words. “Sorry.” 

She sat up and placed her hands on her knees, fixing her skirt. 

“I guess I owe you an explanation,” she said quietly. 

And she did. She really did.  

“I thought we were happy.” He said suddenly, unable to catch the words that were sitting in his head for five years. “I thought you loved me.” 

Her eyes watered and Jackson clenched his fists, restraining himself from going to comfort her. 

“I did,” she whispered, “I still do,” she swallowed with force and added, “there never was anyone else.” 

Jackson started furiously blinking his own tears. He shook his head. 

“No. No, you said…the last time you said…” he fell silent, his threat constricting. 

It was a terrible time for him. He had just found out he was adopted. His father threw it into his face with a fist backing it up. He had lost a third lacrosse game in a row and was shunned at school. His only refuge was Lydia and she, she… 

“I said that you were no one and meant nothing to me. That I never wanted to date a loser like you. That you were not worth my time, or anyone else’s for that matter,” she said, her voice wavering. 

Jackson clenched his teeth, feeling that hurt he felt the first time wash over him. He turned away, wanting to get away, to run away all over again, to never hear those words again. 

“I didn’t mean it,” she said pleadingly. “Jackson, please, I didn’t mean it. Please, just listen to my heartbeat, you have to know that I never thought that about you.” 

He didn’t. He was scared she was lying. He was even more screed that she was telling the truth. 

“I ran away because of you,” he said. It was a lie though, she was just the last straw that made him leave. 

“That’s why I said those things,” she sniffed. 

He looked up at her in confusion. “I – I don’t understand. You wanted me to leave?” 

She slid down the little couch she was sitting on onto her knees, placing herself at one level with Jackson. 

“Do you know what I am?” She asked. Jackson furrowed his brows. “I’m a banshee, a wailing woman. It’s a.. _gift_ that I inherited from my grandmother. It means that I…I can feel death. I follow it, I scream for those who are going to die soon. In time, I learned how to turn that scream into a weapon, just like you saw with the hunters.” 

Jackson just nodded, taking it all in, which, to be honest, after conversations with Stiles, was not much. 

“What does it have to do with me?” He asked dumbfounded. 

She pursed her lips and shifted a little closer to him. “You were the first one I screamed for.” 

He looked at her with wide eyes, startled. “I…I was going to die? What? When?” 

“That’s how my nature was awoken. One day everything was all right, we were together, we were happy, and then – you felt like death, like it was close to taking you away… it was terrifying. You- I could not let you die. I was so desperate for a solution, for answers, and then…” 

She went quite and Jackson repeats after her, encouraging, “And then?” 

She takes a deep breath. “Do you remember that last game? We went to Beacon Valley on the lacrosse match.” She looks at him and he nods, remembering it – they lost then. “When we left Beacon Hills that feeling…it disappeared. I thought that a possibility of your death vanished and I was so relieved…and then we came back. And it came back as well. I had a theory then. I asked you to take me to the beach out of town, remember? It went away again then. And then I understood…that in order for you to live, you had to leave Beacon Hills.” 

Jackson stared at her and stared and stared, feeling hollow. 

“I would’ve left when I went to college.” 

“It was too long of a wait,” she said, brushing heavy tears from her cheeks. “The feeling…that feeling was growing, and growing, and it felt like you could die at any day. Please, Jackson, you have to understand, I was so scared, so worried about you. I loved you, I couldn't let you die…So when the opportunity presented itself, I took it.” 

When he find out about his parents, when he was loosing, when the ground under his feet was shifting so much it was shaking. She saw an opportunity and she took it.  

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked. 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me. You were so stubborn and arrogant, I was afraid you’d brush me off. So I did the only thing I thought would work.” 

How stupid he had been, he thinks. He really was such an asshole, that if she warned him, trying to save him, he would’ve really just call her crazy and laugh in her face. 

It turned out, that she was not the asshole in their relationship. He was. 

He hid his face in his palms, feeling so stupid. 

He felt her hands on his wrists, tugging them down, away from his face. 

“Jackson,” she was suddenly so close his breath caught, “why did you come back?” 

“I followed my alpha here,” he answered truthfully. 

She had tears in her eyes still when she looked at him. 

“You have to leave, Jackson,” she whispered and he flinched. 

“That feeling,” he started, his heart clenching. 

“You have to leave. Or you’ll die here. Please, Jackson.” A tear slid down her rosy cheek. “I still love you.” 

Jackson leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands, looking at her closely. 

This girl, this woman, saved his life. Twice now. 

This woman, the only one he ever cared in his life, still cared about him. 

He leaned closer and gently brushed his lips against hers, subtly inhaling scent of her skin. She smelled of lilacs and fresh concrete. Strangely, he thought it fit. 

They hesitated, holding their breaths in anticipation. He then pressed closer to her, placing a firm kiss on her lips. 

He leaned back then, his eyes closed, pressing his forehead to hers. 

“I love you still too,” he whispered his confession. 

There were so many questions in his head. Like, what was she doing here? Why wasn’t she away at college, or working on her project under a grant and competing for a fields medal? Why was she still in this town? 

Although the most pressing question was – why did she never come after him? Why did she never try to contact him, find him or leave with him in the first place?  

Why did she think that being apart was the best course of action? 

He didn’t say any of that. He just held her close, enjoying her presence, having her in his arms again. 

“Promise me you’ll leave,” she pleaded. 

“I will,” he said. He wanted to, he really did. This town had nothing he wanted or needed. 

He didn’t ask her if she would go with him. It was the first time in years he felt like a coward. 

He fell asleep again with her in his arms on the hard wooden floor. 

When he woke up, she was already gone. 

He quickly stood up and scaled down the tree, following her scent, wanting to make sure she got back safe. 

He didn’t have the chance though. Half a mile out, he came face to face with a bane of his existence – Peter Hale. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out my two other ongoing works.  
> And a tumblr where I post prompts up for grabs.


	16. What We Found Out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello there.  
> Bad news: I am still helplessly depressed. No getting out of it. Although it is better since I quit uni. But now my relatives who are never involved in my life and who I see once a year, so basically don't have many rights, nag at me to find a job. It's tiring, irritating and often demeaning. And here I thought I'd have some peace.  
> Lost another close friend. She has this whole new life that just doesn't involve me since she moved out.  
> This chapter was supposed to be bigger, there was supposed to be another like shock factor, a secret be told, but I am too tired and I haven't posted in a while, and I didn't want to make you wait any longer. I will post the second part, a small one, later on.  
> Mixed news: it was my birthday yesterday. It feels weird, birthdays always do. Spent it with my last and only close friend. It was nice. No expectations. I missed the feeling.  
> There are only a few chapters left to this story, actually.  
> Good news: I am not abandoning this Fic. Nor my other one about teenager Peter.  
> Great news: there's a new chapter! Go on, go read it!

“ **Let’s make a deal,”**  said Flo and smiled his dangerous smile. 

Talia Hale did not even look like she needed any time to consider such an offer. 

“You will fix what you’ve done with the border and we will spare your life.” 

Flo started laughing raucously. He laughed and laughed, and even bent over, that’s how funny what she was offering was. 

**“First of all,”** he said, when he finally found his breath,  **“there will be no fixing what I, in your deranged vision,** ** _did,_** **because I did not even touch your** **border,”**  Talia frowned angrily at his denial but kept quiet,  **“and second of all,** ** _alpha,_** **I can teleport. I could snap your son’s neck in a second and you wouldn’t even know how it happened.** **So** **no,** **I will not be** ** _b_** ** _argaining_** **for my life because it has never been in any danger.”**  

At the end of his spitting speech, Derek was growling and had claws in Jackson’s shoulders and Talia was barely restraining from being vocal like her son. 

Flo smiled charmingly at them and then addressed Derek,  **“Child, please. Stop damaging the goods or I** ** _will_** **put you down.**  

Derek made a scene of removing his claws. Peter was subtly smirking at him when Talia finally snapped. 

“You will stop threatening my pack right this second,” she said in a controlled voice. Boy, she was angry. 

Flo looked at her again and raised a single eyebrow. There was nothing she could threaten him, she had no leverage. And she knew it because she took herself under control, nodded once and asked, “What do you want then?” 

An explosion went off somewhere in town and it shook the ground under their feet. Flo did not move and neither did Talia. Peter was still staring at him hungrily, although the rest of their party looked in the direction of the explosion, deeply worried. 

“ **If you don’t mind, we will take a minute of a conference,”** he grinned at her and mock-bowed her. 

“We?” Talia echoed in confusion but it did not matter. 

Flo turned their back on them, knowing that they were no threat to him at all, and started the conversation. 

**_“This is the perfect time to give him up,”_** Flo looked at the projection of Stiles standing in front of him meaningfully.  

Stiles gasped. “ _No! No, you can’t” he stared at the demon in horror._  

**_“Just think about it, just for a moment.”_**  He raised his hands placatingly.  ** _“We are on the run. It is hard as it is and we can not keep the additional_** ** _ballast_** ** _! Look…we saved his life, we took him in, we taught him how to control his wolf_** ** _. Hell, we even helped him with_** ** _housing and_** ** _school_** ** _,_** ** _and_** ** _a_** ** _job. But Stiles,_** **Stiles,** ** _listen to me._** ** _This is the perfect opportunity to drop him.”_**  

**** “We can’t,” Stiles was repeating. “We can’t do this, _he is bonded to me, I made him my familiar.”_  

**_“Temporarily,”_** Flo stresses forcefully,  ** _“You_** ** _bonded_** ** _him_** **temporarily** ** _, just to keep the pup in line and let him_** ** _learn how to live with his wolf in his own pace. But he is alright now, he is stable. And the Hale pack will take care of him, they will take even better care of him_** ** _than you do now_** ** _._** ** _”_**  

Stiles’ resolve was weakening. _“But, but..”_ he tried to protest weakly. 

**_“Stiles, just think about it. What do you think will happen once we leave, huh?_** ** _They will sell you out._** ** _Even if_** ** _the Council is not coming here already then_** ** _Hales will sell you out_** ** _later_** ** _and they will be on our toes. I bet Peter will be the first with the tip,”_** Stiles face scrunched in remorse and hurt but Flo was relentless,  ** _“and if we take_** ** _Jackson with us then what kind of life will he have? Because after Beacon Hills we will not be able to settle for some time._** ** _And you are not Bonnie and_** ** _Clyde_** ** _, you’re barely even friends. Think about Jackson, Stiles. He has just started making a life for himself and do you really want to take it all away? All the stability he has been building_** ** _around_** ** _himself? And for what? What for, Stiles? Just so that_** ** _you_** ** _wouldn’t_** ** _be alone? It’s_** ** _not_** ** _the_** ** _time to be selfish.”_**  

A tear rolled down His cheek. Flo was right. This was Jackson’s hometown, he would be pack with people he knew, with whom he went to school with. He would have stability, a real pack, a real alpha. Perhaps, it was really time to go. 

Stiles heaved a breath as another tear rolled down his cheek. He buried his face in his hands and nodded. 

Flo smirked smugly and turned back to face the alpha. 

**_“We will mend your border if,”_** he made a dramatic pause,  ** _“you will take Jackson in your pack.”_**  

Everyone’s eyes widened in surprise. Except for Jackson's. He gasped in horror and started struggling against Derek’s hold. 

“Stiles!” He cried desperately. “ please, don’t, please you can’t do this. Stiles!” 

Jackson was pleading and struggling. Stiles was feeling remorseful and sorry for himself while hiding at the back of his mind. Flo just kept smirking. 

**_“Do we have a deal?”_** He pressed. 

She looked at him piercingly but as she did not really have a choice and a price was not at all high but even beneficial to her in some was. She nodded. 

“I, Talia Hale, alpha of the Hale pack give an unbreakable oath of accepting beta Jackson Whittmore in my pack …after you mend the barrier.” 

**_“It’s a deal then,”_** he nodded in satisfaction at her poor wording.  ** _“Lead the way.”_**  

They set off then, Alpha Hale taking the lead, Flo following and then Derek dragging Jackson, and finally Peter taking the rear. Sheriff Stilinski was keeping up with them, just to the side, quite yet watchful of their surroundings. 

**_“Constant vigilance!”_** Flo entertained but Stiles did not react. Yet Flo chuckled to himself out loud and earned a strange look his way. 

They were barely walking a few minutes when the Nemeton presented itself, eager for the powerful presence. 

**“My, my,”** Flo murmured, his eyes hungrily feasting upon the magical stump. Thanks to Stiles and his spark, he could feel the thrumming power, the blazing lay lines and the pulsing centre of the wards. 

He circled the stump, taking it all in. 

**_“Can you feel it, Stiles?_** ** _Can you feel the power? Oh, but what great things we could_** **do** ** _with it…”_** ** _,_** said Flo, his breath catching in greed. 

_“No,”_ Stiles denied him immediately.  _“Just, let’s just get this over with okay? What do I have to do?”_  

Flo hummed to himself, not entirely displeased for he knew that he had a chance still, perhaps later, to influence Stiles to his will. 

**_“Can you feel the spell, child?_ ** **_Very tricky. It’s blood magic. Someone really did not want anyone reversing it.”_ **  

He breathed in the magic sparkling around the tree. Very clever, indeed. And powerful.  

Yet, it was nothing compared to what Stiles could do. 

**_“You’ll have to drop the limit.”_ **  

The projection of Stiles in front of him startled violently and started feverishly shaking his head in protest. 

_“No! No, Flo, I can’t—”_  

**_“You will,”_** he looked at him meaningfully, leaving no room for the argument. Stiles swallowed painfully.  ** _“It is a high chance the order already knows you’re here. And there are hunters terrorizing the town, painting you_** ** _as_** ** _the target. You have no friends here, no protection. I say it is due date you unbound your spark.”_**  

Stiles was staring unseeingly at the stump. Flo knew he had won before even the start of the conversation. 

  ** _“They thought they were tricky with the spell,”_** Flo snorted.  ** _“_** ** _The caster relied on blood relations for the centre of his_** ** _spell. A parent, perhaps a sibling. To break it we have to match. Luckily,_** ** _we can.”_**  

He turned around to stare at the Sheriff Stilinski. How convenient the fate was.  

The Sheriff was looking at him as well, his hand on the gun. Flo smiled at him, baring his teeth. 

_“So, so you think…” Stiles started, but stopped, unsure of himself, his eyes wide and fearful, “you think…he really is my dad._ So the _spell…and the spell…”_  

**_“Yes, child,”_** he said and rolled his eyes.  ** _“Anyway, it will be a perfect test of confirmation._** ** _Better than any blood test. Magic never lies.”_**  

_“You won’t…” Stiles started nervously, his head spinning, “_ tell  _him, will you?”_  

**_“I’ve got it covered. Don’t you worry your little head about it.”_ **  

Peter was walking around in circles around them.  _Prowling._  

It did not bother Flo. In addition, he did not let it bother Stiles. 

Alpha Hale was standing before him like a statue, studying him. Derek was looking between his family members, frowning, and occasionally glancing at Jackson, who was on his knees, his eyes unseeing, heart in denial. 

**“It is a very complicated spell,”** Flo lied for it was a child’s play for what the spark could do,  **“** **it will be very taxing on our strengths. You must realize what a gift we impart to you and for such a small price.”** He smirked yet the alpha was not taking his bait. 

He cocked his head to the side. He could have so much fun fighting her, tearing her from limb to limb, carving into her… Flo hummed. Maybe later. 

**“In order for the spell to reach its full potency and overlay the blood magic** **, it will require blood as well.** **The caster** **’s** **, which is me, of course, and for the Nemeton to** **recognize** **the authority imposed on it, a blood of a guardian of** **Beacon** **Hills.** **”** Derek snarled at him, thinking he was threatening but the alpha was looking nonplused. The trust that woman was putting in him, after mere minutes of accusing him of being at fault! M, my, was she desperate.  ** _“To strengthen the effect, numbers have power as you must know, I will also require the blood of another guardian, a human one.”_** He looked at Sheriff Stilinski pointedly. The man only turned to the alpha. 

Talia Hale was staring at him, gauging his words, assessing the truth behind him. Flo smiled at her. 

It was not the sweet and warm smile or even playful that Stiles would often produce. 

She nodded and the Sheriff started rolling up his sleeve. 

**_“Your turn, child._ ** **_Let’s see the depth of that spark of yours.”_  **

Oh, but how hungry Flavros was for it. To have it, to feel it, to use it. To bend it to his will, manipulate it to his needs, enslave it for his use.  

Such a shame it had a mind of its own. 

Stiles closed his eyes and breathed out nervously. It didn’t take long to locate his spark inside of him, to imagine the roaring fire that was begging for freedom from behind the doors, yearning for release, willing to be used. He hesitated. He wasn’t ready. 

He never thought this moment would ever come. At a spark of courage, he threw the doors open. 

Flo stumbled on the spot from the sheer power that rolled through the boy’s body. It has built up even more over the years. It was intoxicating.  

He was delirious with power. Oh, but how great was it to feel such might once again. 

Stiles was awed, he could only smile with wonder. He felt complete and full, and free. He had missed his spark. And the spark had missed being whole. 

Flo rolled his shoulders and found four sets of eyes on him. He smirked at all of them. 

He waved his hand and a knife appeared in his hand. With unrestricted access came new abilities. 

**_“If you will please step forward,”_** he waved the knife at the alpha and the Sheriff. It probably looked like some sketchy deal with the devil from a horror movie. It wasn’t far off, though. 

Talia, the brave leader, presented her hand first. 

“Mom-,” Derek started, worried, but was quickly cut off by the stern glance from his mother. 

**_“How precious,”_** the demon sneered and cut meanly into her wrist, splashing the stump with the blood, without taking his eyes off of her. He eyed her reaction hungrily. There was a hint of a snarl on her face. 

The cut healed immediately. He tried not to pout. 

The Sheriff was next. Flo flipped the knife in his hand and it was suddenly clean. There was no need to taint the blood they actually needed. 

**_“_ ** **_Since he is the key to the ritual you should take over, Stiles._ ** **_You know it might not work if I did it.”_ **  

It certainly would  _not_  work, but it was nice to make himself look capable. 

Stiles shifted nervously and took control of his body. 

The changes in behaviour were clear as day. Soft gaze, nervous posture, fidgeting body, twitching fingers. The fear in his eyes. The insecurity in his own abilities. 

“Hello, Stiles,” the Sheriff said kindly and Stiles looked at him with wide eyes. 

“Sheriff,” he nodded at him and raised the blade nervously. 

He took his hand and after a calming breath, he quickly yet gently sliced into the meat of the Sheriff’s hand. He squeezed the hand once, splashing the blood over the Nemeton and then let go. 

He quickly vanished the knife, and on the whim, grabbed Sheriff’s hand once again, but with his both hands, squeezing it quickly and letting go. 

Sheriff Stilinski looked in surprise at his healed wound.  

“Thank you,” was all he said and stepped away. 

Derek was glaring at him. As if his mother even needed that courtesy. 

He called the knife again, and with only a slight wince cut into his own hand, letting the blood drip over the stained stump. 

He heard a fierce growl that was quickly cut off. He did not raise his head. 

He took a deep breath and pressed his palms into the blood. He closed his eyes and focused on the instructions Flo was murmuring in his head. He was right, it wasn’t difficult. 

At first. 

The blood and incantation provided him with the ability to see into the power of the Nemeton. It was breathtaking. So much power, all concentrated in one tree. He could easily get lost in it. It was good thing Flo was with him, he thought. 

With some effort he was able to concentrate and find was he was looking for – wards. Apparently, they were set and then adjusted by the same person. Their magical signature was very well hidden, but still not good enough to trick the spark. 

Changing them was as simple as flipping a switch. He was about to reverse it when… 

**_“Do you think it is wise?”_** Flo interjected.  ** _“Simply turning them back? Perhaps it would benefit us to simply isolate the town fully. After all, what good it would be it we just let all the enraged supernatural elements run and take it out on the unsuspecting citizens of our country? Not talking about the hunters that you would let out. Ready to move on, to destroy other sanctuaries. Perhaps it would be wise to keep them contained and let the people have their revenge.”_**  

Stiles nodded along. It did make sense to him what Flo was saying.  

_**“And if members of t** **he** **council are already here then the barrier will stall them when we**_ _**inevitably make our escape**_ _**, give us a head start.  Just don’t forget to make a loophole for yourself,  darling.”**_

Stiles flinched but nodded. It all made sense. 

He closed the border. No, no one would be able to enter, not a citizen, nor anyone with permission. It would repel anyone daring to get close. It would also deny any exit. They were locked in. Others were locked out. 

But the fact that the ritual worked, that he was able to close the border, that the blood had worked, - the Sheriff, the dad,  _his_ dad, it worked! 

He had a dad. A dad who loved him unconditionally, a dad who swore to protect him, to never bring him harm. 

Finally. 

Stiles readily although with a grain of remorse let go of the nemeton. It was taxing, he realized with a start. The spell drained him somewhat. If he still had his limit set, he would have been dead to the world already. But with his full spark unleashed it barely made a difference. 

It was astonishing how much power he had. 

It scared him. 

“Done,” he croaked and shifted his shoulders, chasing away the stiffness. He woke up barely an hour ago and still could remember that sick feeling of being poisoned and sick. He carefully avoided looking at Peter, for the betrayal was burning too strong still. 

Alpha Hale did not move. She was trying to discretely look between him, the Nemeton and Peter. 

Flo quickly took over and snarled at her,  **“The deal!”**  

Deputy Derek Hale snarled back. Flo was still insisting on playing the villain and smirked back. 

**“Go on,** **_bite_ ** **him, make him pack. Only the** **n** **I will remove our bond.”**  

Stiles insisted on it, after all. He did not want Jackson to feel the loss of the pack as acutely. 

 “Stiles’ and mine bond,” Jackson suddenly whispered and looked up, looking him straight in the eye. “Not yours. You can’t make these decisions, you have no  _right_.” 

He was snarling now, finally coming out of the shock. 

Derek heaved him up to his feet and Jackson now stood straight, seething. 

The bond told Stiles another story. He was feeling scared, and betrayed, and abandoned. 

Maybe he shouldn’t do it, maybe there was another way, Jackson was family, he couldn’t imagine them apart, what would he do and… 

**_“It’s for the best,”_** Flo stopped his train of thought.  

Stiles agreed. 

Talia Hale was speaking words of acceptance. Jackson was shaking and not looking at her, helpless in his fate. She bit him then, accepting him into her pack. When his blood hit her she choked on it, gasped and stumbled back. 

**_“Can you feel it?”_** Flo smirked evilly and stalked closer to her. Peter was at her side then, standing between her and Jackson, taking in everything eagerly.  ** _“Can you feel the power?_** ** _I am connected to Jackson and your bond is tricked into thinking I am pack as well. And you feel all the power, how great it is, how unstoppable._** ** _And to think you threatened me?_** ** _You_** ** _foolish child._** ** _”_**  

He was cut off abruptly by Stiles taking over, who did not think that such an ordeal was supposed to be made fun of. On a whim, he stepped closer to Jackson and hugged him fiercely. 

“Please,”( _don’t be mad, forgive me,_ _please take care of yourself, please understand)_  he choked out for nothing else was either valid anymore, or at least in a minute, or projected his love to the guy he saved, who gifted him with the gift of companionship and friendship, who took care of him and let himself be taken care of; his roommate, his friend, his familiar, his pack. The only family member he did not regret. 

He stepped back as abruptly and wiped a stray tear from his face. He pressed his hand onto Jackson’s chest and concentrated on pulling the spark of familiar he had gifted him years ago away, on ripping away their bond with roots, leaving nothing behind. 

“Restrain,” Stiles grunted and Derek immediately seized beta’s arms. Jackson thrashed and howled in pain.  

Stiles felt himself breaking. 

It was necessary. 

A small blue fire appeared in his hand and he looked at it with fascination. Jackson had already passed out from the strain and shock. Everyone else was looking at the flame. 

Stiles felt unbalanced. Jackson was his anchor, his centre, he did not know how to deal without him, without their bond. He did not know how to be alone anymore. 

He was so distracted he did not even feel when it happened.  

His control slipped and he was not the one holding reigns anymore. 

His hand shot out and shoved the flame in Peter’s chest. 

Peter was too surprised to even move. But when what was happening caught up to him, he was already helpless. With wide eyes, he was absorbing the flame, letting it engulf him. 

Stiles was horrified. At first. Then he probed around Peter’s soul and what he found disturbed him profoundly. 

He should have known. His aura looked tainted, his wolf asleep, his behaviour unstable and irregular, his actions unhinged, his betrayal senseless.  

He could feel the layers of the spell that had been controlling Peter for the whole year he had been awake. Layers and layers of spell were poisoning him and his wolf, layers that took more than just a year to lay and set in. Many, many years.  

Someone took advantage of Peter when he was at his weakest, while he was in a coma, and made sure to cast an intricate spell, taking over Peter’s mind, his facilities, his goals.  

All he felt was malicious intent. The spell, however, did not have a plan for  _him_ , there was no direction for love, or flirting, or anything even close to romance. Stiles was not a part of the plan. 

With all his might he pushed, and pushed, and pushed the flame in in in, willing it to take root and heal Peter from the inside, ridding him of someone else’s control.  

His spark was spreading like a fiendfyre, eager to work, to help, to  _fight_ _, to destroy._  

The flame, the to-be-bond would heal him in some time. He would struggle, he would suffer, he’d be miserable trying to decide between two forces. It would take time and give pain but Stiles wanted Peter  _now,_ he wanted him with him, he wanted…he wanted to hear that it was not a lie. He wanted to look at the ashes of the spell and find out who had done this to his…someone. He wanted Peter to heal right  _now._  

Stiles dropped his hand. He heard snarls, Peter was jerked a step back away from him.

He raised his hand and fire appeared in his hand. It would heal, it would speed up the bond, it would bring Peter back. He would help, he just had to give it – 

He stumbled back a step as a searing pain pierced his shoulder. His flame went out and he automatically lifted it to touch at the burning patch of skin. He looked up, to the right, and saw the Sheriff, his  _dad,_ holding a smoking gun. 

His father saw him as a threat. He  _shot him._  

But…but it wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to love him, to take care of him. He was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be his – 

“Dad?” Stiles said with wide fearful eyes. 

John’s eyes went wide in surprise and his hands slack. 

Stiles felt tears gathering in his eyes as he took a shaky step back, turned on the spot and, suddenly, found himself in another part of the forest, alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it. Please leave kudos and comments.  
> I also appreciate suggestions. It`s always interesting to know what you think should or could happen.


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